Summary: Years may have passed, and the beauty you and Elijah once shared seemed to have faded. But he'd be damned if he ever forgot how you made him feel.
A/N: I've come bearing gifts of this fine gentlemen, and some nice passionate sex. I'm also aware when I wrote this I used more of Louisiana twang/dialect despite Sinners taking place in Mississippi, please forgive me. I also am hating this so bad, I nearly didn't finish it.
TW: Slight angst - Anal - Gay sex - Soft sex - Bottom reader - Top Smoke - Females DNI - Minors DNI
Words: 7.8k
How long, indeed, can a soul tether itself to the phantom of what was? At what precise moment does the shared laughter, the whispered secrets, the intertwined dreams, truly recede into the irretrievable past? When does the vibrant tapestry of a connection unravel, thread by painful thread, until all that remains is the faint scent of dust and the echo of silence? How many seasons must bloom and fade before the ache in one’s chest dulls, before the sharp edges of memory soften into a blur, before oblivion finally claims its due? And when, dear heart, are we permitted to cease the ceaseless interrogation of our own worth, to quiet the relentless whisper of self-blame that asks if we were the architect of our own abandonment, the unwitting author of our undoing?
Seven years, a crucible of time, had passed since the void opened, yet the bitter sediment of self-reproach still clung. It was a relentless tide, pulling you back to the conviction that his departure was a verdict on your very being. You, and not some woman sculpted from a worthier clay, some lovesick boy whose gaze held him as the center of your universe, were the reason. The thought gnawed, a relentless parasite, each time your body pressed into the hollow of that bed, each time your fingers, as if by ancient instinct, sought the cold metal of the ring on your finger. It was a cruel talisman, mocking you with its silent promise, a promise meant only for your own yearning heart. How many endless reflections in the mirror, how many phantom touches of his hands against your skin, would it take before the searing pain finally retreated, before the image of his touch became nothing more than a faint ripple in a forgotten pool?
The day Elijah left, a quiet surrender settled upon you, a resignation born of a deep-seated, painful knowing. You had always anticipated this unraveling, this inevitable withdrawal. Yet, you, the unwavering fool who vowed love until your last breath, offered him a smile, a fragile beacon against the encroaching darkness. Your hands, trembling with a love that defied reason, placed a small bag of dried herbs and roots around his neck, a desperate charm against an unknown world, a whispered plea for his safety. Seven years had etched the lines of time upon your face, yet the tendrils of that love held you fast, an unbreakable vow to a ghost.
The last rays of the evening sun, long and golden, sliced through the grimy panes of your shop windows, illuminating the motes of dust dancing in the air. Your dirty linen shirt, sleeves rolled haphazardly past your elbows, bore the testament of a day’s labor. Sweat, a cool film, caked your skin, and strands of hair, unruly and damp, clung to the nape of your neck and forehead. The few customers who had graced your threshold were the familiar faces of local farmer's wives, seeking solace in the scent of dried herbs and the brief, precious reprieve from the clamor of their own homes. Their presence, a quiet rhythm in your otherwise solitary life, had become a comfort you had long since grown accustomed to, a gentle hum against the quiet ache within you.
The air in the shop hung heavy with the faint, soothing scent of lavender, a pervasive perfume that clung to the aged wood and dusty shelves. On the worn, wooden countertop, a wicker basket overflowed with freshly picked lavender blossoms, their soft purple heads a vibrant contrast against the dark weave of the basket. It was a gift from the farmer's wife down the road, a small gesture of kindness that resonated deeply. Your gaze settled on them, drawn by the way the sunlight caught against the delicate petals, highlighting the subtle variations in their hue. Your fingers, calloused from years of tending to the earth's bounty, reached out, brushing against the soft, velvet texture of the blossoms, a gentle caress that spoke of a quiet communion with the earth, a faint echo of other hands you once longed to touch.
A distant sputtering cough from a car engine snagged your attention, pulling you from the gentle spell of the lavender. It died abruptly out back, a jarring note in the evening's quiet symphony. You instinctively brushed your hands against your trousers, then ran a hand through your sweat-soaked hair, your gaze lifting from the wicker basket to the back window. A shadow flickered past, then vanished beyond the frame. The heavy thud of your worn boots echoed across the old wooden floors as you moved toward the back door, your hand pushing against the thick, familiar wood.
You squinted, the setting sun a blinding glare in your eyes. A car, sleek and far too well-kept for anyone you knew, shimmered in the distance. A cold knot tightened in your stomach. It was the kind of vehicle the white folk drove, the kind that heralded their false smiles and the subtle, chilling judgments they reserved for anyone "different." You took a step back, retreating into the dim comfort of your shop, your heel bumping against the counter. Your hand fumbled beneath the counter's lower shelf, searching, finding, and pulling out the old handgun. It was unloaded, of course. Elijah, ever the pragmatist, had never trusted you with the bullets, knowing full well you'd find a reason to use them. You clutched the cool metal, the weight a small, false comfort, then squared your shoulders. Pushing the door open once more, you stepped out, walking deliberately toward the figure now visible in the fading light.
You faintly registered the blue hat on the man's head, the rigid tension in his shoulders as he stared out at the horizon, a silhouette against the dying sun.
"Shit, you really gonna shoot me?" The voice, a low rumble, sent a jolt through you. It was the voice that had breathed your name in the depths of night, the voice that had woven whispers of comfort into your deepest fears, the voice that, seven years ago, had claimed you as his.
"Elijah?" The name was barely a whisper, a question breathed into the humid air.
He turned, slowly, his hands rising in a gesture of mock surrender, his eyes, those same piercing eyes, fixed on you. You were speechless, a gasp caught in your throat. He hadn't aged a day. Still as handsome, still as vital as the morning he and his twin, Elias "Stack," had simply left.
"Seven damn years, Elijah, seven years!" Your voice, when it finally broke free, was laced with a raw, Louisiana-tinged fury you hadn't known you still possessed. "You got the nerve, the unmitigated gall, to waltz back here, lookin' like you ain't seen a day of trouble, while I been standin' here, grievin' a ghost! I should shoot you, Elijah. I should put this empty gun right to your lyin' heart and pull the trigger, just for darin' to show your face 'round here again!"
"Now hold on. That ain't no way to greet a man, not after all this time." His voice, still that same molasses-smooth timbre, tried to soothe, but it only fanned the flames of your anger. He took a hesitant step closer, his hands still raised in that infuriatingly calm surrender. "Don't you go talkin' 'bout shootin' nobody, especially not your old man."
"My old man?" You scoffed, a bitter laugh tearing from your throat. The handgun, weightless and useless, still felt like a lead pipe in your grasp. "My old man don't abandon me, don't disappear into thin air for seven whole years, leavin' me to wonder if I was cursed! Don't you dare call yourself that!"
The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows around him, making him seem both impossibly real and like a cruel mirage. He still had that lean strength, that effortless grace you remembered. The same confident tilt to his head, the same dark eyes that used to hold galaxies for you. And that blue hat, a stark, almost insolent splash of color against the drab landscape of your abandonment.
"I had my reasons," he said, his voice dropping, losing some of its easy charm. He finally lowered his hands, and you saw the weariness etched around his eyes, faint lines that hadn't been there before. "Things... things got complicated."
"Complicated?" You echoed, the word a poison on your tongue. "Complicated? Is that what you call it, Elijah? While I was here, watchin' my hair turn gray thinkin' I drove you away? While I was pickin' lavender and herbs, tryin' to stitch my broken self back together, you were out there gettin' 'complicated'?" You gestured wildly with the gun, then let your arm fall, defeated. "You got no idea what that did to me, Elijah. No idea at all." The anger, sharp and hot moments before, was now melting into a familiar, aching sorrow. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in fiery hues that mirrored the turmoil in your gut.
He took another step, closing the distance between you, and you didn't back away this time. His presence, so tangible, so solid, was overwhelming. The familiar scent of him – woodsmoke and tobacco, something that spoke of travel and open roads – filled your senses, a cruel memory in itself.
"I know," he murmured, his voice softer now, laced with a regret that sounded almost genuine. "I know I messed up bad. But I'm here now. I came back. For you." His eyes, dark and intense, met yours, and for a fleeting second, you saw a flicker of the man who had loved you, truly loved you, all those years ago.
The air hung heavy between you, charged with years of unspoken words, of hurt and longing and a desperate, fragile hope. The empty gun felt heavy in your hand, a stark reminder of the bulletless despair you'd carried.
You didn't entirely believe him. Not yet. But the raw, desperate part of you, the part that had withered and ached for seven long years, yearned to. You stood there, silent, even as his calloused fingers gently, almost reverently, took the empty handgun from your grasp. He knew. You saw it in the subtle shift of his eyes as he held it, the way he casually racked the chamber, a sound that in any other circumstance would have been jarring but now felt oddly familiar. He knew it was an empty threat, a prop in your years-long play of pain.
You turned, the back door swinging shut with a soft click, and motioned for him to follow. The familiar scent of lavender and dried herbs enveloped you as you stepped back into the dim shop. You felt his presence, a palpable warmth, just behind you. But you stopped short, your gaze snagging on two small figures standing awkwardly in the middle of the room – the Miller kids, all gangly limbs and wide eyes, probably from a few miles out. A practiced smile, one that had long since become a second skin, stretched across your lips.
You cleared your throat, the slight catch in your voice the only hint of the storm brewing within. "Evenin', y'all. Your momma send you for more rosemary and thyme?"
They nodded in unison, their faces solemn. The older one, a boy no more than ten, held out a crumpled piece of paper. You took it, deftly slipping it under your suspenders without breaking eye contact. Reaching behind the counter, your fingers found the rough texture of dried bundles. You pulled out a generous bunch of rosemary and another of thyme. "Now don't go sellin' this on your way home," you hummed, a familiar playful threat in your tone. "Don't need your momma comin' back and yellin' at me." You chuckled softly, handing them the fragrant bundles. They clutched them tight, muttering quiet thank-yous before turning and scurrying out the front door, their small forms quickly disappearing down the dirt path in the fading light.
Elijah stepped up behind you, his hand a quick blur as he plucked the paper from beneath your suspenders. You spun around, ready to snatch it back, but he was already holding it out to you, not the paper, but a thick roll of crumpled bills, a surprising wad of cash.
"Why you takin' something that ain't worth a damn dime, when you could be takin' real money?" he asked, his brow furrowed, that old, practical glint in his eyes.
You rolled your eyes, snatching the paper back and tucking it securely into your pocket. "Unlike you, Elijah, money don't mean a thing to me. I got no use for it, and I sure as hell ain't plannin' on leavin' anywhere to use it, not like you did." The words, sharp and laced with the residue of seven years of resentment, hung in the air between you.
"Where'd you even get that, Elijah?" You demanded, your voice sharp with suspicion as your eyes flickered from the roll of bills in his hand to his face. "Who'd you and Stack rob blind to get a hold of somethin' like that?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he moved with a fluid grace that was still painfully familiar, crossing the worn floor to settle himself onto an old, creaking wooden chair nestled near a shelf heavy with dried, jarred herbs. The chair groaned under his weight, a sound that seemed to punctuate the silence that stretched between you.
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, a barrier against the swirling emotions. You moved around the counter, putting yourself directly in front of him, your gaze unwavering. "Money ain't nothin' but sin, Elijah." Your voice was low, imbued with years of hard-won conviction. "It's somethin' corrupted. It makes folks do ugly things, turns their hearts to stone." You gestured around the simple, honest shop. "This here, this is real. This ain't got no blood on it."
He shook his head slowly, a faint, almost pitying smile playing on his lips. His eyes, though weary, held a steely glint you recognized from long ago. "I been around the world and back again." His voice was calm, almost detached, a stark contrast to your simmering passion. "I ain't seen no gods, no devils, no sin like you talkin' 'bout. Not the kind that just hangs in the air, waitin' to snatch you up." He paused, his gaze meeting yours directly. "And I'm still here, ain't I? Walked through fire, seen things'd make your hair stand on end, and I'm still standin'."
His words, so starkly pragmatic, hit you like a cold wind. It was the same Elijah, yet somehow different, hardened by experiences you couldn't even begin to fathom. The air in the shop, usually so comforting, now felt thick.
He leaned forward, his gaze never leaving yours, and then his hand was on your waist, a familiar warmth that sent a shiver through you. With a gentle tug, he pulled you closer until you were standing flush against him, his knee settling intimately between your legs as you stood over him. His other hand moved, resting lightly on your bicep, holding you in place.
"Look at me," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your bones.
You resisted for a moment, your eyes fixed on the knot of his shirt, then slowly, reluctantly, you met his gaze. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, the kind that used to melt your resolve and steal your breath.
"I'm sorry I been gone so long, cher," he said, his thumb stroking your skin where it rested on your bicep. "But I ain't never forgot you. Not a single day."
A long, ragged sigh escaped you, all the fight draining from your body. You uncrossed your arms, the tension easing from your shoulders. One hand moved, resting on his broad shoulder, the other pressing against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. It was real. He was real.
As your hand settled, Elijah’s eyes dropped, catching sight of the simple band on your finger, the one you’d worn without fail for seven years. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – surprise? Regret? Satisfaction?
"Looks like you ain't forgotten me either," he said, his voice a little softer now, a hint of something akin to tenderness in his tone. The words hung in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unbreakable thread that still connected you.
"Don't remind me, Smoke," you sighed, the nickname, one only you had ever used, feeling like pure poison on your tongue. The word seemed to hang in the air, a whisper of shared intimacy and long-held pain, and a low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"I didn't leave because of you," he said, his voice a quiet confession, his thumbs still stroking the soft skin of your waist. "And it ain't got nothin' to do with me bein' in love with another man. I just... I just needed to get away." His gaze, dark and earnest, held yours, and for the first time since he reappeared, a flicker of genuine vulnerability crossed his face. "But I'm here now."
A strange calm settled over you. You knew he was being honest. It wasn't about you being a man, or some other love, or any of the thousand anxieties that had gnawed at you for years. He hadn't left because of you. And the truth of his words, combined with the undeniable pull of his presence, resonated deep within your soul. You also knew, with a certainty that transcended words, that he wasn't lying about never forgetting you. His body had tensed when your hand first touched his chest, a subtle tremor that spoke volumes. And now, as you leaned down further, your lips brushing feather-light against his, you felt the frantic, wild pounding of his heart against your palm, a drumbeat confirming the silent language of a love that, despite everything, had refused to fade.
Your hand, still resting on his chest, began a slow, deliberate journey downwards, a teasing exploration of the planes and hollows of his torso. You felt his body instinctively arch closer to your touch, a subtle, primal response that brought a small, knowing smile to your lips. "You ain't forgotten me," you hummed, your voice a low, throaty purr. "Seems like your body ain't forgotten me neither."
The hand that had rested on his shoulder moved, tracing a path up the side of his neck, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble of his jawline before your palm cupped his cheek. Elijah leaned into your touch, his eyes half-lidded, heavy with a mixture of desire and something akin to awe, as he stared up at you. The gentle pressure of your hand seemed to draw the words from him, a whispered confession.
"I'd never forget the way you made me feel," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper, thick with emotion. "Never forget how good you always felt."
You brushed your lips against his again, a soft, lingering touch that promised more. As you did, your hand, which had been resting on his chest, slid lower, moving with deliberate slowness until your palm cupped the crotch of his pants. You felt him squirm under you, a sharp intake of breath from him, his head tilting back slightly, lips parting in a silent gasp.
A smirk played on your lips, a wicked curve that belied the years of pain. "Is that your apology, Smoke?" you hummed, your voice a low, teasing whisper against his mouth. "Or are you gonna show me just how sorry you are?"
Elijah knew that tone. He knew the playful lilt, the glint in your eyes, but beneath it, he recognized the raw, undeniable need. A need that had festered in the quiet corners of your heart for years, a hunger for something far beyond what you could voice.
Elijah's eyes, still heavy-lidded, met yours for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. Then, with a low groan that vibrated deep in his chest, he tightened his hold on your waist, pulling you down just a fraction more. He leaned up, closing the small distance, and his lips found yours in a slow, deliberate kiss.
It was a kiss of remembered warmth, of long-buried tenderness, and an agonizingly slow unraveling of seven years of silence. His lips moved softly against yours, testing, tasting, as if rediscovering a forgotten melody. His hands, no longer tentative, moved from your waist, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs stroking the soft skin just below your eyes. You felt the slight roughness of his calloused palms against your skin, a comforting weight.
Your hands, in turn, mirrored his, moving to cup his own cheeks. You felt the faint stubble beneath your fingers, the strong line of his jaw. The kiss deepened, a gentle exploration turning into something more profound, a wordless conversation of longing and regret and the undeniable pull of a shared past that refused to be forgotten. The scent of him—woodsmoke, earth, and something uniquely Elijah—filled your senses, a potent reminder of everything you had lost and everything that was now, miraculously, here again.
He groaned softly against your lips, a sound of deep satisfaction, as he surged upwards from the old chair, never breaking the deep, consuming kiss. With surprising strength, he pushed you back against the sturdy wooden counter, the cool, familiar surface a stark contrast to the sudden heat of his body. His lips never left yours, a continuous promise of rediscovered passion.
His hands, no longer cupping your cheeks, moved with a practiced intimacy to the straps of your suspenders. His fingers slipped beneath them, cool against your skin beneath your linen shirt, and with a gentle tug, he pulled them down, letting them hang loosely by your hips. In turn, your hands, fueled by an urgent need to feel him closer, fumbled with his heavy overcoat, pulling it down his arms and off his broad shoulders, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. Your fingers, a little less steady now, worked at the buttons of his vest, each one an agonizingly slow release.
Then, with a decisive move, Elijah’s hands found your hips. With a smooth, powerful motion, he hoisted you up onto the countertop, the surprising lift breaking the kiss as you gasped softly. Your legs instinctively parted, wrapping around his waist as you settled onto the cool wood. He leaned his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavily, the sudden rush of air a sharp contrast to the breathless intensity of the moment.
"God," he whispered against your skin, his voice rough with emotion, "I been waitin' for this... waitin' so long to feel you like this again."
You shifted on the cool wood of the counter, your legs tightening around his waist. The raw yearning in his whisper mirrored the ache in your own soul, an ache you’d tried to bury under years of solitude and routine. His hands, still firm on your hips, pulled you even closer, grinding your body against his until there was no space left between you.
"Seven years is a long time to wait, Smoke," you breathed, the lingering bitterness in your voice a thin veil over the rising tide of desire. You watched his eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, as he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, then your ear.
"Every damn second of it," he rasped, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your throat, sending shivers down your spine. One of his hands slid from your hip, tracing a path upwards, under your linen shirt, cool fingers finding the bare skin of your back. He pulled you tighter, arching his body into yours, leaving no doubt of his own desperate need.
You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. The scent of him, that familiar mix of earth, old leather, and tobacco, filled your senses, wrapping around you like a forgotten embrace. The years of emptiness began to recede, replaced by the immediacy of his presence, the burning heat where your bodies met.
His mouth devoured yours once more, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of years of longing. His hand, still beneath your shirt, moved from your back, sweeping up your spine to tangle in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the angle of the kiss. You responded with equal ferocity, your own fingers digging into the strong muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him as if he might vanish again at any moment.
He groaned, a guttural sound that vibrated against your lips, and pulled back just enough to catch a ragged breath. His eyes, dark and glazed with desire, burned into yours. "God, I need you," he rasped, his voice raw. Without breaking eye contact, his hands left your hair, moving to the hem of your linen shirt. He fumbled slightly, his fingers trembling with urgency, as he began to pull it up, trying to peel the fabric over your head.
"Elijah, no." you whispered, pulling back slightly, your hands immediately going to his to stop him. "Not here, not in the front…" The words were half-formed protests, a faint echo of caution against the roaring tide of desire. You could hear the distant sounds of the crickets outside, the shop now plunged into near darkness save for the sliver of moonlight filtering through the dusty windows, but the thought of a passerby, even at this late hour, sent a jolt of apprehension through you.
He paused, his hands still fisted in your shirt, his breath hot against your face. His eyes, though still clouded with need, held a flicker of the old stubbornness. "Don't you tell me no, not after all this time," he growled, a low, possessive murmur. He made another move to pull the shirt off, his movements more determined now.
You pressed your hands against his chest, a futile attempt to push him back, but your body was already betraying you, arching into his touch. The thought of being seen, exposed in the front of your shop, warred with the overwhelming, primal urge to simply let him strip away every layer between you.
Elijah let out a soft sigh, a sound of both frustration and reluctant concession. His eyes, still burning with undiluted desire, met yours for a fleeting moment before he pulled away. In a flurry of swift, efficient movements, he moved through the shop, the soft thud of his boots echoing on the wooden floor. You heard the distinct click of the front door lock, then the back. Curtains, usually left open to the quiet outside world, were quickly drawn, plunging the shop into a deeper, more intimate gloom, lit only by the faint, filtered moonlight.
When he turned back to you, standing once more between your splayed legs, a slow, knowing smile spread across your face. He was an imposing figure in the dim light, his presence filling the space.
"There was a time," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, as he reached for the hem of your shirt again, this time with a more patient, yet no less determined, hand, "when you'd let me bend you over this very counter in broad daylight." The fabric glided upwards, revealing your bare chest to the cool air, and you shivered, not from cold, but from the raw anticipation.
You chuckled, a low, husky sound, leaning back slightly into the counter's edge as his fingers deftly unbuttoned your trousers. "Things have changed, Smoke," you breathed, feeling the familiar slide of denim against your skin. "I don't exactly have the luxury of complete privacy anymore."
You instinctively lifted your hips, a silent invitation, and Elijah didn't hesitate. His hands, warm and sure, slipped your trousers down your legs, letting them pool around your ankles before kicking them aside with a bare foot. He kept his hands resting on your thighs, his gaze locked with yours, intense and unyielding.
"Call me my real name," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against the hum of the night. "Not Smoke." His thumbs stroked the skin of your inner thighs, sending shivers through you. "I love the way 'Elijah' sounds comin' from you." He knew. You only ever called him Elijah when you were scolding him, when the frustration or anger boiled over, just like earlier when he'd first appeared, or moments ago when you'd told him about your lack of privacy. And he loved it.
You leaned down, the curve of your body pressing against his, and whispered his name against his lips, soft and reverent, like a long-held secret finally released. "Elijah."
He kissed back, the softness of his whispered name a new kind of fuel. His lips, warm and seeking, then trailed down your jaw, a leisurely exploration that sent shivers through you. He moved to your neck, feather-light kisses dusting over your skin, finally lingering just above your Adam's apple. His breath, hot and ragged, fanned against your skin as he whispered, "Just like that, baby."
His fingers, already beneath the hem of your boxers, began to move, a slow, tantalizing brush against the exquisitely sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The simple touch ignited a fire that had been banked for far too long, a desperate, undeniable heat spreading through your core.
His lips moved from your neck, a warm, wet trail descending lower. He nudged your boxers down with his nose, following the path of his fingers as they eased the fabric away from your skin. The cool air of the shop, a stark contrast to the heat building between you, ghosted over your now exposed skin. He didn't rush, taking his time, his breath warm and moist against your abdomen as his mouth pressed against your bare skin. Each kiss was a slow burn, a deliberate act of rediscovery after years of absence.
You arched your back, a silent invitation, your fingers digging into his hair, urging him closer, deeper. The scent of him, mingled now with the rising musk of your own desire, filled your nostrils, intoxicating and utterly consuming. His kisses were light, teasing trails that sent shivers through your entire body, awakening nerves that had long been dormant. You felt his smile against your skin, a faint, knowing curve as he savored the moment, the years of separation melting away in the heat of his touch.
His kisses grew bolder, moving with a deliberate slowness that heightened the anticipation. He worked his way down, past your navel, his breath hot against your lower belly as he continued his tender assault on your skin. You gasped, a soft, strangled sound, as his lips brushed against the soft hair at your groin, a silent promise of what was to come. The cool air of the shop, the faint scent of lavender, the distant murmur of the night outside—all faded into an indistinct hum, overshadowed by the intense focus on his mouth, his touch, the overwhelming reality of him.
You clutched at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the firm muscle, your knuckles white. Your body thrummed with a desperate need, a seven-year ache finally finding its release in the intimate exploration of his lips against your skin. Every nerve ending seemed alight, screaming for more, for everything he had denied you, and himself, for so long.
He pulled away just enough to undo the button on his trousers, the sharp rasp of the metal breaking the silence. With practiced ease, he pushed them down, along with his boxers, just enough for his aching cock to spring free, hard and heavy against his inner thigh.
Elijah then guided you off the countertop, his grip firm on your hips, his nails digging into your skin with a desperate urgency. As your feet touched the cool wood of the floor, his lips found yours in a slow, tentative kiss, a renewed exploration that spoke volumes. You moaned into the kiss, the exquisite feeling of his cock brushing against yours as he pressed his body into you, a silent confirmation of years of unspoken yearning finally unleashed.
The soft press of his cock against yours sent a jolt through you, a sensation so long denied it was almost overwhelming. You tangled your fingers in his vest, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until it was raw and breathless. He moved against you, a slow, deliberate grind that made you whimper into his mouth. The years, the pain, the questions—all of it faded into the background, eclipsed by the immediate, undeniable presence of him, here, now.
He broke the kiss, just enough to tilt your head back, his eyes dark and heavy with unspoken needs. "Seven years," he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, "and you still taste like home." Then he lowered his head, pressing his mouth against your neck again, his tongue tracing a hot, wet path down your collarbone.
His hand, still on your hip, tightened, then moved lower, seeking purchase on your bare backside. He lifted you slightly, adjusting your position until your legs were wrapped more securely around his waist, the friction of your bodies a burning promise. A low moan escaped your lips as his other hand found the small of your back, pressing you impossibly closer.
The air in the shop thickened with the scent of aroused bodies and long-held desire, overpowering even the familiar aroma of dried herbs. Your breath hitched in your throat as he began to move, a slow, deliberate rock of his hips, the brush of his hard cock against yours a tantalizing torture. Each movement was a whisper of the years of separation, a confirmation that this was real, that he was here, and that the longing had been mutual.
You arched into him, a silent plea for more, your nails digging into the skin of his shoulders as if to anchor yourself to this moment. The world outside the dimly lit shop, the quiet street, the very passage of time—all faded into an irrelevant backdrop, leaving only the exquisite, overwhelming sensation of him.
The exquisite torment of his teasing became unbearable. You threw your head back, a desperate plea tearing from your throat. "Elijah, please," you gasped, your voice thick with urgency, "Stop teasin'. I need you inside me. I need to feel you."
He smirked, the faint curve of his lips pressing against your heated skin as he pulled back just an inch, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. With a powerful surge, he pressed your back against the cool, solid countertop once more, pinning you there with his body. His breath hitched as he whispered, "God, I missed hearin' you say that, baby."
The words, his acknowledgment of your raw need, ripped through you. A shudder ran through your body, and the last vestiges of resistance, of the carefully constructed walls around your heart, crumbled. The faint chill of the countertop against your back was a stark contrast to the burning heat where his body pressed against yours. You hooked your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in, desperate for the friction, for the promised release.
"Elijah," you pleaded again, the name now a desperate prayer, your hips instinctively bucking against him. You could feel the rigid length of him pressing against you, a promise aching to be fulfilled. The scent of him, that primal mix of sweat and desire, filled your nostrils, intoxicating and overwhelming. Every fiber of your being screamed for him to just enter.
He let out a low growl, a primal sound that vibrated deep in his chest. His hands moved from your hips, sliding under your thighs, gripping them firmly as he adjusted your position. The gentle brush of his tip against your entrance.sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated need through you.
With a powerful thrust, a gasp tearing from his throat, Elijah finally, exquisitely, slid inside you. A guttural moan ripped from your own lips, a sound that was half pain, half pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The sensation was overwhelming, a fullness that had been absent for seven long years, stretching and filling you in a way you'd almost forgotten. He paused for a moment, letting both of you adjust to the profound intimacy, his breath ragged against your ear.
Then, with a low growl, he began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that sent shivers of pleasure through every inch of your body. The old wooden counter groaned softly beneath you, a silent witness to a reunion that was both raw and utterly redemptive.
He kept moving, a slow, deliberate rhythm that resonated deep within you. Each thrust was a journey of rediscovery, a reacquaintance with a pleasure so profound it felt entirely new. You met his gaze, wide and dark with desire, and saw your own yearning reflected there. His hips rocked steadily, pressing you into the cool solidity of the counter, the friction a sweet, escalating torment.
Your hands, still entwined in his hair, tightened, pulling his mouth down to yours for another deep, consuming kiss. It was a silent conversation, a dialogue of bodies that spoke of years of absence and the desperate joy of reunion. His tongue tangled with yours, a familiar dance, as his movements grew deeper, more insistent. You felt the muscles of his back flex under your touch, the raw power of him as he drove into you.
He broke the kiss only to murmur against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, "Missed this. Missed you." His hips surged again, a primal rhythm taking over, and you instinctively arched into him, a low moan escaping your lips. The scent of lavender, usually so calming, was now an intoxicating haze, mingling with the musk of your shared passion. Every slow, deliberate thrust built the tension, a beautiful, agonizing ascent towards an inevitable peak.
Each slow, deliberate thrust was a re-tracing of forgotten maps, a deep-seated memory of connection that transcended the years. You felt the rhythmic pull and release, the exquisite friction, and a warmth spread from your core, radiating outwards, dissolving the lingering coldness that had settled in your bones. With every push, a wave of sensation washed over you, a profound sense of rightness that echoed the feeling of his body against yours.
You tilted your head back, exposing your throat to the dim light, a silent surrender to the overwhelming pleasure. His breath hitched with each deep stroke, a reciprocal groan of satisfaction. The sounds of your bodies moving together, the soft thud against the counter, the wet slide of skin, filled the small shop, a symphony of long-denied reunion. It wasn't just physical; it was an anchoring, a feeling of being finally, truly, back where you belonged, held secure in the arms of the man who had inexplicably left, and just as inexplicably returned.
You let out a choked moan, a desperate sound ripped from your throat as the tip of Elijah’s cock brushed against your prostate. A lightning bolt of pure, overwhelming pleasure shot through you. Your hands instinctively flew to grip the edge of the countertop, your knuckles white, as your back arched, straining into the sensation. He continued the exquisite torment, his cock dragging against your prostate in slow, deliberate motions, each touch sending tremors through your entire body.
He kissed at your jaw, his lips warm and moist against your skin, whispering, "God, you feel so good, baby. So perfect. Listen to you."
You couldn't form words, only instincts. You began to rock your hips, meeting his thrusts with a desperate urgency, trying to deepen the already unbearable pleasure. Your mouth hung open, a string of broken moans mixing with the ragged whispers of his name, a desperate mantra in the dim, herb-scented air.
The pleasure intensified, a molten wave spreading from your core, consuming every nerve ending. Each slow, deliberate thrust was now met with an eager, desperate arch of your hips, seeking to deepen the exquisite pressure. You felt the muscles in your thighs tremble, the strength in your grip on the counter unwavering as you rode the escalating tide. His breaths grew ragged, mingling with your own, a symphony of desperate desire in the quiet shop. The scent of dried herbs and raw passion filled the air, thick and intoxicating. Every inch of your skin felt alive, humming with the force of his presence, the undeniable, overwhelming reality of him finally, truly, back inside you.
You let out a low whine, a sound of protest and immediate loss, when Elijah pulled out. The sudden emptiness was jarring, and before you could even fully register it, he shifted, setting your back against the cool wooden floor. But your protest died on your lips as you were swiftly turned around, your body now bent over the counter, face pressed lightly against the cool wood. The familiar, soothing scent of lavender from earlier flooded your senses, the wicker basket, still overflowing with purple blossoms, mere inches from your face.
Elijah bent over you, his lips pressing against the nape of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. One hand returned to your hip, gripping you firmly, while the other tangled with yours on the countertop, a silent anchor in the storm of sensation. "Elijah," you moaned, your voice muffled by the wood, feeling him slowly, exquisitely, thrust back into you. The gasp that tore from your throat was pure, unadulterated pleasure as he filled you once more. You squeezed his hand, a desperate plea and a wordless thank you, as his thrusts grew harsher, more urgent, pressing your body into the solid counter with each powerful snap of his hips.
His hips slammed into yours, a relentless rhythm against the cool wood, each thrust driving you further into the depths of sensation. The scent of lavender, once a gentle comfort, was now a potent, dizzying cloud around you, mingling with the musk of your bodies. Your fingers, locked with his, tightened convulsively with each powerful plunge, the small pains in your hands a distant echo to the overwhelming pleasure radiating from your core. You could feel the counter pressing into your chest, the faint grain of the wood against your skin, grounding you even as your senses soared.
He leaned in, his breath ragged against your ear, and a low groan tore from his throat. The tension in the air was palpable, building with each desperate, driving thrust. It was a rhythm of redemption, a furious, passionate reclaiming of lost time, of lost touch. Every movement was a wordless apology, a whispered promise, a desperate, undeniable affirmation of a connection that had endured, unbroken, through years of silence and separation.
His thrusts grew sloppier, more desperate, his body trembling with the effort. He pressed his face against your cheek, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, and you heard the low, guttural confession rumble from his throat, "God, I love you, I love you."
The words, raw and unbidden, shattered something deep inside you. Your own voice, thick with emotion and choked moans, tore free. "I love you too, Elijah-" you gasped, the words mingling with the sharp intake of breath as his cock continuously brushed against your prostate, sending shockwave after shockwave through your body. Your legs began to shake uncontrollably, your knees feeling like jelly, threatening to give out entirely beneath you. The world narrowed to the burning point of contact, the scent of lavender, and his whispered declaration of love.
A final, shuddering thrust, and then a primal cry ripped from Elijah's throat as he poured himself into you. Your own body tensed, an overwhelming wave of pleasure washing over you, dissolving into a delicious, trembling release. You cried out his name, a ragged sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy, as your vision blurred and your muscles spasmed.
He collapsed against your back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body heavy and spent. His grip on your hips remained, a possessive anchor, and the hand entwined with yours on the counter now simply lay there, limp with exhaustion. The scent of lavender was still present, but now it was deeply mingled with the musky aftermath of your shared climax. The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of both your hearts slowly returning to a more normal rhythm. The weight of him, warm and familiar against your back, was a comfort you hadn't realized you'd been starving for. The years of separation, of agonizing doubt, seemed to melt away in the quiet aftermath of such raw, undeniable intimacy.
The trembling in your legs slowly subsided, replaced by a profound, almost dizzying lightness. Your fingers, still splayed on the cool wood of the countertop, felt oddly sensitive, the texture of the grain seeming intensely vivid. A wave of exhaustion washed over you, a deep, bone-weary contentment that settled into every muscle. But beneath the physical languor, a fragile, almost unbelievable warmth began to spread through your chest. It wasn't just the afterglow of pleasure; it was something far more potent, the gentle unfurling of a hope you had long since abandoned.
Elijah’s weight on your back was a grounding presence, a tangible reality that contrasted sharply with the years of his ghost-like absence. You could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against your own back, a rhythm that was both foreign and intimately familiar. The scent of him, no longer just a memory, was a heavy, sweet perfume in the air, a testament to the undeniable, physical reunion.
After a long moment, he shifted, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he carefully pulled himself out of you, the sudden emptiness a brief, sharp pang. He didn't move far, though, simply resting his forehead against your shoulder blade, his arm coming around to pull you closer against his front.
The shop was still, the only sounds the soft creaks of the old building settling around you, and your own labored breathing slowly evening out. The moonlight, now a softer, gentler glow through the drawn curtains, cast long, distorted shadows across the floor. You lay there, draped over the counter, utterly spent but profoundly, unbelievably present.
The silence was no longer heavy with unspoken words or bitter accusations. It was filled with the quiet aftermath of a storm, the gentle settling of dust after a whirlwind. For the first time in seven years, the future didn't feel like a vast, empty expanse. It felt uncertain, yes, but no longer hopeless. Elijah was here. He had returned. And in the soft glow of the moon, amidst the scent of lavender and the lingering warmth of his body, that was, for now, enough.
Synopsis: There was once a time where Remmick offered you the life you wanted in exchange for your companionship. He gained you, loved you, and then left you. All to show back up on your doorstep years later wanting to be let in all over again.
Word Count: 11.4k
A/N: Finally writing a transmasc reader because I'm transmasc, woohoo!! It's wild to finally be releasing this, this was actually the first concept I had for a fic after first watching Sinners months ago, and it's finally here. I don't know what the hell took so long, but we got here I guess. I want to thank you all for the unbelievable love my fics have been getting, it truly means the world. Also shoutout to the lovely mutuals I've made through this community, they're all so fuckin cool and I'm sending em lots of love. And thank you to @candiedbeez for letting me lay next to you in bed and explain this beat for beat and then helping me pick a title <3. Anyway hope y'all enjoy!!!
Warnings: transmasc reader, abandonment, guns, interview with a vampire reference if you squint, period typical transphobia (not from Remmick, loosely discussed), implied stalking, the house is alive, excessive use of section breakers, angst, reunion sex, cunnilingus, some feminine language used for reader genitalia, fingering, overstimulation, crying during sex (both), penetrative sex, sappy sex, creampie
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated and adored <3
Or if tumblr formatting ain't your jam read here on ao3 <3
⋆.✮ 18+ Minors DNI ✮.⋆
He wasn’t supposed to come back.
Even if you wanted him to, he wasn’t supposed to.
And even then, you weren’t supposed to wish for his return. To dream of it. To yearn for it. That was something you’d been supposed to bury years ago, in the deepest, farthest part of your heart, locked behind your ribcage for no one to ever dredge up again.
But he’s here all the same. And you know it’s him. No one else would come this deep into the heart of woods and bayou, let alone in the middle of the night. But even without that fact you’d know it’s him. The cicadas don’t quiet for a single other soul. The porch creaks low and angry, like it’s scolding an old friend for not coming sooner. And sure enough the bells on the wind chimes he tied above the porch ring, just like he told you they would.
He doesn’t knock, he never did in the past, why on earth would he start now? He knows you’ll come all the same anyway. And you do. For a moment you just stand in the middle of the room, looking at the figure on your porch through the wood and mesh of your door, he’s there silhouetted by the night, reflective eyes glinting in the moonlight, he doesn’t say a word, even after all this time, he just waits for you.
It’s not immediate, and the way you drift to him is slow and cautious, like he’s a trick of the light and if you tilt your head or move to just the right angle he’ll be gone again. He doesn’t though, when you’re right in front of him, the door and the magic that won’t let him in the only things between you, he’s still there. He grins when you come to him, tucks his hands in his pockets, and makes sure you watch him do it. Hands elicit memories, especially his, hands that have laid you out and take you apart in ways that would have you Daddy drag your sorry ass to the pews and never let you leave, if he could find you that is. And that mouth and fanged grin your eyes glide back to have done worse.
“Hey there.” And that’s all he has to say, after all this time.
“Get the hell off my porch, Remmick,” your voice shakes more than you mean it to, more than you want it to, from anger or grief, neither of you can really tell.
His head tilts to the side and his smile falters for a minute before it returns, smaller than before, “c’mon, don’t be like that.”
When you don’t make any move to open the door, he leans on it making it creak on its hinges, “baby, ‘m starved, I need ya, c’mon and lemme in now, since it seems the house ain’t jus’ gonna let me no more.”
For a moment nothing happens, you don’t move a muscle, and his smile starts to falter again. And then your hand starts to move towards the door and he stops leaning on it so you can open it. And you do open it, what he doesn’t anticipate is when you hold it open with your foot and don’t ask him to come in. Rather, you grab that old shotgun you’ve had propped by the door right for this occasion and point it right at his chest.
“That won’t kill me,” but you can see in his eyes that it startled him, “ya know that.”
You keep that gun trained on his chest, don’t flinch for a moment, just stare at him right down the barrel of it, “it’ll hurt like a sonova bitch though, won’t it?”
He looks down at it, then back up at you, and he swallows thickly, “yeah, yeah it will.”
“Good,” and you cock the gun.
He takes a step back, eyes darting between you and the gun much quicker now, he raises his hands slowly, lips curved on the left side in a sheepish grin, “sweetheart, darlin’, baby, you ain’t gotta do all this, jus lemme in, we can talk—”
And that makes you laugh, the throaty kind of laugh that very quickly turns into a scoff, “‘Talk?’ Last I heard you were a Louisiana man now, went to be with yer own lot, didn’t need to talk to me no more—”
He rolls his eyes, and you almost blow a hole in his chest just for that, “that’s what all this is bout?”
“Fuck else would it be about?” You jab the gun towards him a little more.
“Believe me when I say, that lot was too much even for me, only took me two months to get tired of all that,” he backs up a little more when you jab the gun.
“Oh, but it took you three years to crawl your sorry ass back here, huh?”
“I can explain—”
“Ya know I looked for you? And I waited, a long fuckin’ time, Remmick,” you say his name like it’s a curse, “then I see a fuckin’ newspaper article, bout some bullshit happening down in Louisiana, a ‘flaming man’ it said, and I thought, there’s only one man stupid enough to go out in the sun and get his ass burnt as a vampire.”
“That coulda been anybody,” no one talks for a moment, and he sighs, “fine that was me, I was gettin’ the hell outta there, I can explain darlin’, jus let me in, I’m sorry, I need ya, ‘s been terrible bein’ away, please.”
“And whose fuckin’ fault is that?”
“‘S mine baby, I know that,” he moves closer, puts his hands down, lets the gun press into his chest, he doesn’t yank it forward to pull you outside, maybe that counts for something, “I love ya—”
And that one stings, feels like a slap right across the face, and you flinch like it is, press the gun harder into his chest.
“You don’t getta say that no more—”
“I mean it—”
“I don’t care,” you’re lying, you know and he knows it too, “I’ll stake ya, I’ll fuckin sharpen fire wood and do it—”
“‘M gonna let that slide cause I know ya don’t mean it,” he walks even closer, gun pressed even harder into his chest, like he’ll let you fire if before the blow it means he gets to be closer to you for even a moment.
“I do—”
“No, no ya don’t,” he puts his hand on the gun, doesn’t tug on it, just keeps it steady and pressed against him. “Ya haven’t fired yet.”
“And you haven’t said sorry yet, not properly anyway.”
“I’m sorry.”
And that makes you scoff, “three years bein’ gone and that’s it?”
“What? Ya want me to beg in the dirt? Cause I’ll do it—”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
You motion with the gun and by tilting your head, gesturing off the porch to the dirt path leading to your home, “ya said you’d beg in the dirt, go on, do it.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
The day you’d met Remmick had gone something like that too.
You’d been different back then, less yourself.
Much less yourself.
Sweeping up your Daddy’s church while he talked to congregation members out back, talking to men about whose son he thought best to tame his daughter, get her back on God’s path.
It was odd to some of the men, on a surface level you were the perfect daughter to the preacher. Kept your head down. Kept quiet. Greeted people coming in for Sunday service. Held the door open for them when they left. Swept up when your Daddy asked you to. Stayed away from the gossip of the other unmarried women. Sweet, polite, and perfect, that’s how those other men saw you.
Not your Daddy though. Maybe it was some divine sight, some message from God, but he knew you were different. All the way from the time you were little. When you’d played too rough with your brothers. When you’d hung around too many boys in town, and not to bat your eyelashes or talk all sweet. When you screamed and fought as your mama tried to put you in your dresses for Sunday service. When you’d enlisted your brother to make your hair look like his when you weren’t even ten, oh how he’d tanned your hide for that one. He knew. He knew there was something different about his daughter, something wrong with her. And as much as you’d started acting right when you got older, he could see right through it. You still wouldn’t marry. Wouldn’t give him grandchildren. Wouldn’t live the way God had written for you. So he knew whatever evil in you still lurked somewhere in his daughter.
Daughter, what a foreign word, used to describe you by others, but never by yourself.
But Remmick didn’t approach you like you were the preacher’s little daughter who wasn’t so little no more, maybe that’s what made him so alluring, or maybe it was what he’d offered you.
He’d knocked on the doors of the church while you were still sweeping, and you’d said come in without thinking, you didn’t know the magic of it all back then, didn’t know what he was, what sort of things lurked outside church walls.
He strolled right in, grinning, eyes all big and bright, moonlight pouring in behind him, you hadn’t even realized how late it’d gotten till he’d stepped in. He was out of place almost immediately, there was this wrongness about him, like he didn’t belong here in the house of God and holy matters, but it didn’t let it bother you none, you weren’t so sure you belonged here either.
He approached you languid and handsome, like a snake oil salesman, you were smarter than to buy whatever he was selling, or you thought you were. His hands were tucked in his pockets and his sleeves were rolled up, and he spoke cautious and cheery, trying to put you at ease like a spooked fawn he’d have to chase down, trying to make sure you didn’t run or call for your Daddy.
“Sorry, service is over, preacher’s out back if yer lookin’ for savin’.”
And he laughed throaty and deep, an inhuman lace around the sound, one that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, and then he spoke just as languid as he walked, “oh darlin’, ‘m not lookin’ to be saved, ‘m here to do some savin.”
“What?”
He took a step closer, you took one back, hand tightening on the broom. You looked towards the back door, you’d locked it earlier behind your Daddy. If you tried running out that way you’d have to spare a couple seconds to undo the lock, plenty of time for someone chasing you to catch you in a room as small as this one. And he was in the middle of the aisle, blocking the most direct path to the front door. If you went around the side of the pews if he was any smart he’d be waiting for you at the door, and you got the unfortunate feeling he was smart enough for that.
“‘S okay, ‘m here to help,” when you moved back away from him instinctually, he reached his hand out, stepped forward, “ya ain’t gotta do that now.”
Human instinct sets in before you can formulate any real plan, the broom slips from your hand and clatters to the ground. Your body follows what every fiber of your being is screaming for you to do: run.
He doesn’t chase you though, doesn’t need to, he makes you stop running with just one word, a name, your name. Not the one your mama gave you, the one you‘d call yourself when you’d wear stolen clothes your daddy and brothers wouldn’t miss. The clothes you’d stuffed far under your bed so when your folks came over to complain you’re a spinster they didn’t see em. The ones you’d dress yourself in before going out in the night and using the name he called you to strangers you’ll never see again. The name you’d prayed to not be caught using.
He grinned when you turned, cruel and unbothered, like he didn't have a care in the world that he just laid your greatest secret out before the altar to await judgement, “yeah, yeah, I know all bout that.”
“How did you…” and even then you couldn’t fathom what he’d said, what he knew.
You were sure you’d never seen him before that night, that he’d never been one of your strangers, that you’d never given him your name. None of that mattered though, he’d known it all the same.
“Don’t worry your pretty lil head, I ain’t gonna go run and tell your daddy or call ya a sinner,” his hand had slipped back into his pocket, “like I said, ‘m here to save ya, cut ya a deal if you will.”
You didn’t move toward him, just grit your teeth and spoke only loud enough so he could barely hear, “what do you want?”
“Ain’t bout what I want, ‘s bout what I can offer you,” there it is, the snake oil salesman you’d recognized in him, “I can offer ya a life where you can live as ya want.”
And you hated the way that pulled you in, like you were already buying what he was selling, “how?” And you hated even more how you couldn’t stop the desperation from seeping into your voice, “what would it cost me.”
“Everything,” he’d said it simply, honestly, “ya wouldn’t be able to come back here, not ever, ya’d have to come with me, but ya’d be yerself.”
“What would ya want me for,” and you still remember how you couldn’t keep the shake out of your voice.
“Company, been an awful long time since I’ve had any.”
“And beyond that?” Because you know there’s more, there’s always more.
He sighed a little at that, but he smiled and flashed his teeth all the same. And the teeth, what a sight they were; different from before, sharper, more jagged, monstrous, teeth that made you gasp and stagger back.
His wrongness wasn’t like yours, at least yours was something human.
“Blood darlin’, I’d want yer blood.”
“What would you…” and your mind went to the worst places it could, of rituals and sold souls that damn you right to hell.
But it’s none of that.
“Things that go bump in the night get hungry too.”
Where would it damn you to help sustain something you can only imagine crawled out of a world much older and more frightening than this one. But then again, where would it have left you if you had stayed there, in that shell you called a life.
In the end it was desperation that made you agree.
A caged bird won’t stay forever if the cage gets opened.
So you took his hand, and you flew.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
He took you to a house that breathed.
A house that you had to walk a long, long way to reach, long enough you didn’t recognize the land, and the sun was threatening to come up over the trees by the time you got there. A house that felt like it cropped up out of nowhere, where there had just been paths and trees and summer heat, then suddenly there it was. A house that loomed in the dark, that had been long swallowed by vines and other growth, that shrouded itself in fog that only seemed to part when Remmick came upon it. A house where the wind chimes sang as he stepped on the porch even on a night with no wind. A house that was alive.
“Chimes’ll tell ya when ’m back,” he says it like they’re living, which should be ridiculous, but with the way windows seem to watch your arrival maybe it isn’t.
“What is this…” you mean to say place, but even that doesn’t feel quite right.
“My home, yers too now.”
And then he steps inside freely, and the floorboards creak in a way that almost sounds like a hum, and when you hesitate he looks back at you and waits. When you step inside the floorboards creak too, as if they’re saying “welcome home.”
It feels bigger on the inside somehow, the proportions of the house don’t make any sort of sense, but then again, nothing about that night made sense. You kept expecting to wake up from this nightmare, or maybe this was a dream, you couldn’t tell.
All of the curtains were dark and drawn, with scatterings of morning sunlight beginning to peek through the lace, Remmick walked around them with precision only learned from walking the same way hundreds of times.
He tosses a grin over his shoulder to you, “I like the light plenty, jus shouldn’t touch it for my own good.”
You followed him closely, fearing something might jump out of the dark crevices of the house and grab you, as if you weren’t already in the lair of a hungry beast.
His tour was quick, succinct, the house was bigger than it should’ve been, but not large by any means. There was a living room with a couch that looked untouched and a chair that looked worn, like the same person sat in it, in the same way, every single night. There were books scattered across the coffee table and filling shelves, all different genres, all different ages, all different levels of wear and tear, like they’d been collected slowly from all different people over more lifetimes than you could wrap your mind around. And that made you remember his teeth, and you felt like you knew exactly how he’d collected all those books.
“Those’ll keep ya entertained, there’s lots, bout all sorts of things too, ya won’t get bored,” he said it so sure, but like that sureness was fueled by hope more than knowing.
The kitchen was small, clearly unused for a long time, but it was warm, like it was waiting for a hearty meal to breathe life back into it. A thin layer of dust covered the countertops. He had the decency to rub his neck and look sheepish enough.
“Shoulda cleaned up more, I never use all this, but I imagine it works jus fine.”
When he took you around you couldn’t help but notice how sparse any decor was. There was a fireplace, if that counted, and it was lit, fire crackling in a way that made you believe there wasn’t a time when it didn’t burn. There was a mirror that only you reflected in when you and Remmick passed by. There was a piece of paper tucked into the frame of it, old and worn, paper so old you worried if you touched it that it would fall to ash right in your hands, it was a drawing of Remmick from the chest up. His clothes were different and his hair was tousled in a different way, like it was rendered in another time and place. It was clear what it served as though, a reminder for a man who couldn’t see himself.
If he’d seen you stare at it, he didn’t say anything.
He stopped by his room before yours. You didn’t follow him inside, but you peaked through the door. His room looked like the rest of the house, mostly untouched, the quilt on the bed was wrinkled, like someone had sat or laid on top of it rather than crawled underneath. There wasn’t any decor on the walls. There was a banjo propped up in the corner of the room, not a speck of dust on that. He opened a small closet and jerked his head to motion for you to come in, when you didn’t budge he smiled, teeth showing, no fangs.
“Hearts’ thunderin’ like ‘m gonna rip it out of yer damn chest, ‘s okay, I ain’t gonna bite, not yet anyway.”
It still took a second but you stepped inside his room, the house hummed again, excited, like it was trying to tell you that you belong here, with him, in this place, in his room.
He opened drawers to a dresser filled with clothes of all sorts of styles and sizes.
“Should be somethin’ in here that’ll fit ya, if not I’ll get ya somethin’, but take anythin’, what’s mine is yers now.” He looked at you like he was proud, like a dog who’d brought back a stick after fetch.
When you just nodded you saw something in him frustrate and wilt, but he didn’t say anything, like he swallowed that down.
He nodded to the door across the hall that you could see through his doorway.
“That’s all yers, do with it what ya please.”
And that catches you off guard, a space of your own. You’d half expected him to chain you to his bed, feed off you till there was nothing left, that the only way you could be a man, be yourself, was as a caged animal he’d drain till there was nothing left.
He looked at you like he could see your thought process, it made him frown, “you ain’t a prisoner here, come and go as ya please.”
He wasn’t looking at you when you said that last part, and you were already out the door and across the hall opening the door when he looked up from closing the drawer and spoke again.
“Jus come back, else ‘m gonna have to go find ya.”
You didn’t know if that was a threat or a promise.
Or both.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
You didn’t like him.
Not at first.
Remmick always watched.
You’d catch him sometimes just staring. Lingering in your doorway too long when he’d walk by and try, and fail, to chat with you. If you made something in the kitchen he felt the need to be in there too. If you grabbed a book from the living room, he’d make a comment on his thoughts on whichever one you’d grabbed, sigh when you didn’t answer, and you’d feel his eyes on you till you closed your door. Even sometimes beyond when it was closed. The feeling of being watched was always present, permeating any room you were in, whether it was by the house or Remmick himself.
The only way to escape it was to go into town. Which Remmick hated. Even if he didn’t say those words verbatim, you could tell. You were free to come and go as you please, he meant that, but oh how he hated you going where he couldn’t follow. And the town in daylight was where he couldn't follow.
The closest town was a 20 minute walk from the house. A place far enough from where you were born that there wasn’t anyone who would even know your birth name to breathe it. And it was far enough away that no one would ever think to go looking for you there either.
The people looked at you strangely whenever you came to town. Nice with an underlying fear. Like they knew you were marked by something older than the churches and prayers they’d tried to ward him off him with. Some of them looked with pity. Some of them with fear. But none uttered a word against you, like they were scared of the consequences if he heard.
You’d walk sometimes in town, for hours, till the sun was going down and you knew he’d come looking. You’d found that one out to be true the hard way. The first time you’d gone to town and not returned the second the sun couldn’t touch him he’d found you, trying to book a room at the town’s inn, just to get away for one night. He didn’t drag you home, didn’t ask to come inside, just waited for the man behind the counter's voice to shake at the sight of two red eyes outside and ask you to “please go.”
He didn’t drag you home, just watched defeat settle in your bones when you walked outside. Then he turned on his heel and started walking back. He only turned to look back a few times, not because he didn’t expect you to follow, but because you were something precious, something worth looking back for, just in case.
When you’d stepped back inside, the house shuddered like he did, in relief and in anger.
He didn’t shout, just looked at you with eyes red enough to look like smouldering coal and said:
“‘M always gonna look for ya, always’ gonna find ya.”
And maybe that’s why you never expected him to leave.
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Or maybe you didn’t expect him to leave because:
You warmed up to him slow, but you did.
You don’t really remember when it happened, when the house felt like your friend rather than your prison, when he stopped being your keeper and started just being Remmick. But it happened all the same.
It likely happened before this, but you think you only realized it the first time you’d seen him come back hurt.
He never fed in town, just kept the threat looming so they’d leave the both of you alone. He’d go farther out, be back before sun up, blood drenched, but intact.
There was a morning he wasn’t back. You’d risen to the sun and Remmick’s presence wasn’t filling the house the way it always did. You never heard the wind chimes announce his return. And the house creaked like a whine, like it was worried.
And strangely, so were you.
When he came barrelling in his skin was torched and peeling like someone had set him on fire and it hadn’t quite gone out yet.
You moved.
Leapt right up and went right to his body, shuddering and splitting at its seems, and you offered your wrist.
He looked at you strangely for a moment, like he wasn’t quite sure what was happening. You’d never stopped him from drinking from you before, that was part of the deal after all, but you’d never offered it.
“Drink,” and your voice sounded so forceful, so worried, so edged on desperation, that he bit right down.
The bite always stings at first before it starts to feel good, before it feels dizzying, maddening, in the best sorts of ways. Eventually your breath would fall in line with his, heavy, and shoulder shaking.
He always had to force himself to stop drinking from you.
“Ya taste too fuckin’ sweet, like all the finest damn things in life,” he told you that with your blood still dripping down his chin, licking over the wound on your wrist, as if he was kissing it better, while his skin started to heal.
It was a terrifying sight in all honesty. Watching a body stitch itself back together so quickly, watching as the burns faded and healthy skin righted itself, watching his eyes stay trained on you like an animal, red rimmed like an eclipse, your blood drying on his skin alongside some poor sap whose body would be found later today, someone whose death would be ruled as an animal attack. Because what else could do that? All of that should have scared you, but as his body righted itself before you on the floor, something in you thought it was beautiful.
You should’ve known it was over for you right then.
And things had gotten even stranger when you asked him what happened, he just stared for a moment like he didn’t hear you properly, before a grin came onto his face, a bewildered, eager grin.
“Got caught up.”
“Don’t do that again,” it rolled off your tongue like a plea before you even realized you were saying it.
You could still feel his eyes boring into you even as you got up quickly and walked away, mumbling something about wrapping your wrist.
His words were just as his smile was, full of palpable eagerness and bewilderment.
“I won’t.”
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Or maybe you didn’t expect him to leave because:
If you had warmed up to him slow, you loved him slower, but you still loved him, didn’t you?
There’s no pinpointed moment you can figure for that one, no moment where it clicked.
Like the rug had been pulled out from under you, one day it just was.
It was little things at first, things that didn’t feel like love.
You’d started staying, listening to his thoughts when you’d leave your room to grab a new book. When you’d return one you’d finished, you’d tell him yours when he asked. Eventually that evolved into staying in the living room to read. It wasn’t easy at first, sometimes he’d stare too long, it’d bother you, distract you from the page.
Then sometime, you don’t know when, his watchful eye stopped bothering you. It felt more like the comforting weight of a heavy blanket. Then he’d started keeping track of the things you read, what you liked, what you didn’t ever touch, and when he hunted he’d start returning with books tucked under his arm that he’d tried so hard not to stain with blood.
Dead men’s stolen goods as gifts just for you. It bothered you at first, the things he owned, the things he brought you, all coming from death he caused. Maybe Remmick really was the devil, corrupting your soul from the inside out, but eventually that fact stopped bothering you too.
It became just another fact of life, death, common as breathing.
The other fact of life that became common as breathing was your love for him.
It was the quiet, steady kind, the kind that filled the house, made it warmer, kinder.
The kind of love where he relearned how to use the kitchen, just to make you breakfast in the mornings, just to watch you eat.
The kind where you stopped running off to town for as much daylight as you could. Insisting when you stopped at first that a part of the deal was to keep him company, even if you both knew the truth was that you had just started to want his.
The kind where you started lingering outside his door when he’d play music, just to feel his voice settle in your bones.
The kind where he’d started leaving the door cracked for you, an invitation to come sit close while he sang, a personal show just for you.
And eventually it was the kind of love where you took him up on that. First standing in the doorway. Then standing at the foot of his bed. Then sitting on the end of it. Eventually curled up next to him, letting the sound of strings vibrate in your chest, and whispered lyrics lull you to sleep.
Because you stopped going back to your own room at night too.
You loved each other in a way that evolved slow.
Where you can’t remember when the kisses started coming, or when his hand started slipping onto the small of your back when he stood beside you, or when you started waiting up for him, or when you stopped using your room altogether and moved yourself right into his, or when his touches stopped being fleeting, when they became heavy, hotter, needier, or when your touches became the same.
You don’t remember when you became proper lovers because in some ways it felt like you always had been. Evolving into it felt as natural as the change of seasons, inevitable as the sun rising.
Unfortunately, you loved him as inevitably as him leaving was.
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You still remember the night he left.
You heard him get up, figured he must’ve just been going for a hunt, you didn’t think a thing of it.
Because it was so normal.
You’d run that night through your head hundreds of times, maybe thousands, and what always made your chest ache the hardest was that it was so unbelievably normal.
He’d kissed you for a little longer, maybe? Remmick’s kisses seemed to linger though, and he smiled against your lips when you kissed him back. Just like he did every. other. time.
Maybe he’d dressed slower? Taken his sweet time drawing his suspenders up his shoulders. Taken extra care with how he buttoned his shirt.
Maybe he’d looked at you in bed just a little longer from the doorway? Let you feel the comforting weight of him looking at you just a little longer before it was gone.
But those were just the thoughts you’d had in the aftermath of him being gone, there was nothing in that night that made you feel any different, not an inkling in your head about something being wrong.
But in the morning, no chimes woke you.
You worried of course, that he’d been caught up somewhere, but he always came back.
Always.
But then the afternoon crept in.
You decided he’s probably found somewhere dark to hole up till dark.
But then the night blanketed your home and hours came and went and there was still no sign of him.
That’s when fear and worry started to creep in.
And the house worried with you, floorboards shifting and creaking with no one stepping on them.
Morning came, but Remmick never did.
So you started looking.
And looking.
And looking.
And you waited, oh how you waited for him.
But he never came back, and you could never find him.
You searched so hard, for so long, and there was nothing.
On cold nights, when you slept in the bed you two once shared, you’d listen for the wind chimes, pray you’d hear them like your Daddy’s god would still answer the likes of you.
But the sound of the wind chimes never came.
You wondered late some nights what had gotten him, your dear Remmick.
Some nights hunters got him, spilled his blood on the stake.
And some nights it was the sun, he’d got himself caught up, and he was just too far to make it back before sunlight stole him away.
But never once, in all of those nights, in all of the deepest fears that rattled your chest, did you imagine he’d just left.
The thought never even crossed your mind before you picked up that newspaper.
After he’d left, you go to town sometimes, just stay there the whole day, like the house was unbearable without him in it. You’d just been walking through town, body moving like a phantom, when you’d seen it. A small tidbit in the corner of the paper, barely catching your eye on the newsstand, but you stopped anyway.
“Flaming Man Running through French Quarter!”
That had been the title that tilted your world on its axis.
The article felt silly, asking residents of the area if anyone had seen the man, if they knew if he was okay, if anyone even knew who he was.
But you knew.
That was Remmick, your Remmick.
He’d talked to you once about rumors he heard about out bayou and New Orleans, that there were a whole helluva lot more of his kind out there. That they lived together, weren’t so lonesome.
When you’d asked him if he wanted to leave the house, to go out there, he’d told you no, he rolled over and kissed you, told you that everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d ever needed was right there in the delta. Because that’s where his heart was, you were holding it after all.
Your feet carried you home, not your mind or spirit. In your head, you mourned, you screamed, anger, despair, agony, all compounded on each other through your flesh and bones. But outwardly your body walked, out of town and through the woods, the sun beating down on you the whole way.
You felt the burn of sunlight and the coolness of sweat the whole walk, and you hoped for a moment that the sun would swallow Remmick whole, scorch him the way he scorched your heart, burn him right up till there was nothing left. But somehow the idea of him being fully gone hurts worse, makes your throat clog up and tears burn in your eyes, like if the sun takes him it’s really over. If he still walked and anger still settled harshly in your chest that meant he might still come back. And you’d rather be furious with him and him still walk this earth than mourn him being gone.
The door was open when you got back. The house welcomed you like an old friend’s shoulder to cry on. And oh did you cry. Shoulder shaking sobs that made you collapse right in the entryway. And the house shuddered with you, window shutters fluttering open and closed, floorboards creaking and groaning like they were sobbing right alongside you. And you felt the house's eyes on you when you stood up, newspaper gripped in hand and stumbled your way to the kitchen. You’d stopped sobbing at that point, anger stopped mixing with sadness, and you shoved all that pain down, so deep down it couldn’t hurt you anymore. And you let all that anger boil to the surface, let it consume and taint all those memories of him.
Because just how long had he been planning on leaving you?
Because he left without a word.
Because he still kissed you like he was gonna come back.
Because even as you shoved that pain down it just wouldn’t stop hurting.
So you slammed that newspaper down on the kitchen table, hard enough the entire house went still and silent.
“He never comes in again, not unless I say so.”
And the house heard you, and it listened.
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That’s how Remmick ends up a silhouette in the night, in the dirt just in front of your porch, waiting for you.
You can see two red eyes locked on you, waiting for you to step out to join him.
When you don’t he sighs and starts.
“’m sorry.”
He says it quick, like that’s all, you can feel his grin even if you can't see it, playful, not serious enough for the gravity of what he’s done.
And you feel it, that burning anger bubbling back up in you, the kind that dulled in the years since you saw that newspaper, but never died. You feel it surge back into you, white hot and furious.
“Get the fuck out of here Remmick—”
When you start to turn, to disappear back into the house, panic shoots through him, so intense you feel it raise the hair on your arms.
You hear his body clatter against the door, claws sinking into the mesh of the screen, he could tear right through it, but he still wouldn’t be able to make it inside.
“No, please, ’m sorry, ‘m so fuckin’ sorry, please just don’t go, let me make this right—”
You’re struck by the sincerity of it, the desperation you can feel radiating off of him, how the way he’s looking at you is so intense you can feel it without looking at him.
You don’t turn around to look back at him, not yet, but you do freeze.
For him that’s enough, and sorrow spills out of him in waves.
“I didn’t wanna leave, not really— I thought, thought I was doin’ the right thing for once, gettin’ the hell outta your life.”
You hear him pull away from the door, stop leaning all his weight on it.
“I thought… fuck me I never imagined you stayin’ here, half thought I’d come back and find you long gone from this ol’ place. I see how stupid of an idea that was now…”
“It was a stupid idea,” your hands are shaking, you can’t help it, “thinkin’ I’d leave, makes you an idiot,” you don’t turn around, not yet.
“I thought bout ya everyday, every goddamned day,” and you know he means it, and you hate the way that knowing that makes warmth flood into your chest, how it makes your hands shake even harder.
“Then why’d ya go on and leave,” you hate how you voice sounds in that moment even more than how your hands shake, how agonized it sounds, how broken.
“Ya know, yer jus bout how old I was when I got turned,” his voice is wistful, distant.
“Answer the question,” you grit through your teeth.
“Gettin’ there,” he doesn’t speak for a long moment, you’re about to force yourself to walk further into the house when he chimes in again. “Ya kept gettin’ older, and hell nothin’ wrong with that, loved watchin’ it, watchin’ you grow into yourself.”
You say it before he does, because you can feel it hanging in the air like a noose, “but?”
“But,” he runs a hand down his face, “I kept thinkin’ bout you growin’ old, dyin’ on me—”
Before you can interject he keeps talking.
“And fuck it was killin’ me, the thought of losin’ you, for a man that’s lived long as me, felt so strange to think I couldn’t live without ya, but I, fuck I couldn’t do it.”
“Then why ain’t ya turn—”
“I thought bout it, all the time really, turning ya,” his voice slows back into that wistful tone, and you can feel him smiling at you, you can feel the way it’s softening your posture without even looking at him. “Anytime those thoughts crept in, bout ya dyin’, I’d jus tell myself that I’d turn ya tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. But I jus couldn’t do it—”
And that makes you turn back around, fury, exasperation, pain etched across your face “why—”
“Because vampirism ain’t no fuckin’ cakewalk! Ya can’t see the sun! The hunger fuckin’ consumes ya! And yer stuck here for eternity! Which I still can’t even begin to wrap my head ‘round that kinda time, and I’ve been here centuries,” he’s pressed himself back up against the screen of the door, you can feel his breath through the mesh, see his claws sinking in.
“Remmick—”
“And when I thought bout turnin’ ya, and believe me, I started thinkin’ bout it real hard, I long since made peace with me bein’ a vampire, but you,” His voice gets caught on some ragged, desperate breath in his throat, “I thought bout a hundred years from now, longer than yer lifetime or anyone else's is supposed to go, and I thought bout how angry you might be that I did this to ya, that ya’d wind up hatin’ me for it, that you’d go on and walk this Earth without me, trapped here because of me, and that, that was even worse than thinkin’ bout death stealin’ ya away from me.”
“Remmick,” you say it softer this time, like it’s a breath escaping your throat instead of a word.
“I couldn’t bear it, the idea ya might hate me, might leave me, but I, shit darlin’, I couldn’t watch ya die either.” He swallows then, you watch it bob in his throat, “so, I left. But then nothin’ made since without ya. Yer all I fuckin’ thought bout, I saw ya everywhere, in everything, and I tried so damn hard to stay away, cause I jus can’t take either possibility, but bein away from ya ‘s so much worse.”
“I would never hate ya,” you speak so soft he can barely hear it, you almost wonder if you’re saying it more for yourself than him. Because all these years no matter how damn hard you tried, no matter how angry you got, how hurt you were, you never could hate him. Could you?
“Even now?” The way he says it is almost pathetic, like a dog with his tail between his legs.
“Even now.” And you’re sure of it, more sure than you think you’ve been of anything.
And to prove it, you swing that door right open.
And the house seems to shift on the foundation, the door creaking like it’s saying “welcome home.”
He stands there in the doorway for a moment, breathless.
“I missed ya, please, come back.”
And so he does.
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The first thing Remmick does when he steps inside is caress your face, each hand holding one cheek. His eyes roam over you like he’s taking in every old and new detail, memorizing you all over again. Every wrinkle. Every scar. Every smile line. All of it.
“Ya got older.”
You turn your head away and scoff, “that happens when yer still mortal.”
He guides your face back to look at him with just enough force to remind you that you ain’t dealing with something human, but he kisses your forehead soft enough to remind you that he was just a man once too.
“Yer just as handsome as the day I left ya, maybe more.”
He kisses down your face slowly, enough time to shove him away if you wanted, but you don’t, of course you don’t.
Years of wanting this, waiting for this has you kissing him back instinctually before your brain catches up.
He kisses you deep and slow till you're breathless, breathing heavy against his lips, chasing them even after he pulls away.
He kisses you again, savouring it, feeling it deep in his bones, his lips brush your ear when he pulls away, “half worried yer body’d forgotten me.”
You move to capture his lips again, mumbling against them between breathy kisses, “thought bout you even after…”
And you feel his grin wicked and devilish against your lips at that, he kisses harder, eagerness radiating off of him, “shit darlin’, shoulda never worried,” his hands trail lower, caressing your body with cold hands that still manage to leave your skin burning. “Got me written in yer damn bones don’tcha?”
“Remmick—”
“Fuck, missed hearin’ you say my name like that,” he’s sinking to his knees right there in the entry way, kissing down your body, hands gripping the back of your thighs, sneaking back up to squeeze your ass just to hear you gasp. “Lemme make up for lost time, yeah?”
And he looks almost angelic on his knees looking up at you, asking to take you apart.
How could you say no?
The second you nod, jagged and sharp, too overwhelmed to speak already, he presses a long, lingering kiss to your abdomen. His lips trailed lower, pressing firm and hot against you, he kisses your inner thigh and even though you’re clothed the kiss sears.
“Remmick—” you say his name like you’re praying.
“Entry way prolly ain’t the best place to show ya how much I missed ya, c’mon now,” he stands up slow, trailing the same dizzying kisses against you as he stands. “Let me lay you out proper.”
When he walks by the mirror where that drawing of him sits he pauses when he sees it’s still there.
“Ya kept it up?”
And you slow to look at it too, “couldn’t forget the face of the man I was so damn angry at,” and the words make Remmick’s chest ache not because of the idea of you being angry with him, but because he can read you like a book. And he knows damn well what you really meant, that you were scared of forgetting the face of the man you loved.
He kisses you again, slow and steady, and when he pulls away he holds your chin, makes you look at him, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, not again darlin’, never again.”
“I know,” but you don’t.
He kisses your forehead then, “no, no ya don’t, but I’m gonna fuck ya till ya do.” And he starts tugging you along to the bedroom you once shared. The one you hadn’t slept in since you saw that newspaper article.
When he opens the door his other hand doesn’t leave yours. The room is still. There’s a thin layer of dust on most things. The bed is still made. Remmick’s banjo is untouched in the corner of the room. There’s a book you were reading on the nightstand, one you never finished. The window’s open, curtains rustling gently with the wind, the only movement the room’s had for years.
“Place looks like a memory.”
“It is.”
“Then let's make some new ones in it, shall we?” And with that he’s pushing you towards the bed, letting you pull him with you by his suspenders, leaning in with a devilish sort of smile on his face when the back of your legs hit the bed.
“Gonna apologize proper now,” is all he says as he helps you out of your pants and underwear and sinks to the floor.
He’s drooling when he looks at you, thick strand pooling over his bottom lip down his chin, eyes fixed on your core like a starving animal. He swallows, tries to get ahold of himself. He wants to have you slow, take you apart real nice till you’re breathy and trembling. But it’s been three years since he’s had what he would consider his favorite meal. So he can’t help but dive right in.
His mouth is buried in you so quick it punches a gasp right out of your chest. And he moans. A deep and low vibration against your core, while his arms work to hook your legs over his shoulders. He has one hand cemented on your thigh, squeezing you to remind you he’s there, as if you could forget with the way his mouth is moving, and the other he’s using to spread your folds open with his fingers so he can lick deeper.
The velvety press of his lips is all you need to know that he’s been dreaming about this for years.
“Even sweeter than I remember,” and he sounds drunk on you already.
His knees are digging into the floorboards with an intensity that would make any mortal man’s body ache, but Remmick is no mortal man.
His hand squeezes your thigh tighter, his tongue slipping between your folds, thick, soft, and slow as he falls into his old rhythm, trying to shove his own eagerness down, but you can still feel how it hums in the air. He’s sinking into familiarity again, letting the pass of his tongue savor you, he hums low and soft when he hears your breath pick up into a pant, and your shaking hand thread through his hair and pull. You hear him groan when you do, but more than that you feel it, vibrations, low and heavy shooting through your core up your spine. The kind that yanks a moan right out of your throat and makes your legs tighten over his shoulders. You feel his smirk against you, another agonizingly slow lick, and then you feel his finger draw itself through your folds before he crooks it right inside.
And you whine.
It doesn’t take long for his finger to know just where to rub inside of you, he plays you like a fiddle, like your body is something he’d never forget how to take apart and put back together.
And every whine, moan, pant and gasp just confirms it for him.
And then he let his tongue flick at your clit, all gentle, just enough to shoot shockwaves through you without being forceful. And you fall back onto the bed, back arching, hand tangling harder into his hair, pulling another moan out of him.
Just as he crooks a second finger into you, he starts to suck on your clit like a vice. As he scissors his fingers, you start to squirm, the stretch wonderful and burning and overwhelming all at once. His hand on your thigh slips up to hold your hip, keeping you solidly in place, unable to run, unable to escape from, unable to forget that he isn’t going anywhere.
By the time he has three fingerings pumping in and out of you, you’re already one orgasm deep, shaking from the overwhelm of pleasure as his tongue still won’t leave you.
“Rem— too much— too fuckin’ much—”
He unlatches from your cunt for one moment just to shake his head, and give your thigh a nip. Just hard enough for him to draw blood, to make you hiss, and then whine when he starts licking your blood right up.
“No it ain’t baby, yer just outta practice, ‘s okay, I gotcha, just fall on off again, ‘m gonna be here to catch ya.”
And with one more crook of his fingers, combined with the feeling of him drinking from you, you do. Your orgasm washes over you like a wave, back arching off the bed, the moan ripped from your throat echoing off the walls, joining the cicadas outside in song, hand pulling at Remmick’s hair, the other fisting the sheets.
And when he draws his fingers out of you, you sob. The emptiness feels like the closest thing to hell since him leaving.
“No— no— jus gotcha back— don’t— put em back—”
He pops his digits in his mouth, licking em clean before rising back to his feet.
“Shit baby, been gone too damn long, gotcha strung out already,” he’s leaning over you now, kissing over your face, leaving traces of salvia and you with each one. “‘S okay, ain’t goin’ nowhere, jus’ gonna give ya somethin’ bigger.”
He leans back away from you, shushing you softly when you whine, he slides his suspenders off his shoulders, real slow, he’s always been a showman after all, and who is he to not give his man a show.
He unbuttons his pants next, doesn’t bother stripping them off, just untucks his shirt and frees his cock. It’s already flushed, hard, and aching for you, beads of precum spilling from the head. He gives it a couple tugs, his head falls back, a groan escaping him. Sensitive as you are, you don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more than you want him in that moment.
He barks out a laugh when you sit up just to grab the front of his shirt and pull him to you.
“Darlin’, darlin’, ‘m coming, ‘m coming—”
“Made me wait three fuckin’ years, ya better hurry yer ass up—”
And he smirks into the kiss when you pull him in, standing himself right between where your legs are hanging off the side of the bed. When your mouth opens to breathe he slips his tongue right in, feeling you, tasting you again. You can still taste yourself on his tongue. Years ago, when you first came to this house, first came to be with him, that would’ve made you feel debauched, wrong, but now? Now it felt right, so, so right.
He only leaves your mouth to kiss down your jaw, then your neck, you can feel the heated weight of him against your inner thigh.
“Remmick,” you don’t even have to say it.
“I know darlin’, I know.”
He lines himself up with your dripping hole and presses in. He’s real slow, careful, like he’s worried he’ll break you. If your breath hitches in a way he deems wrong, he stops, presses a kiss to your pulse point and waits till you get fidgety beneath him before he presses in more. When he’s fully seated he’s hovering above you, slack jawed with lidded eyes. Drool drips down his chin, splattering onto your face, he swipes his thumb over his chin, then over your face, collecting the spit there, before dipping his thumb into your mouth, you suck it clean instinctively and he whines. He presses his face into your neck and just holds you for a moment, getting used to the feeling of your cunt squeezing him again, of your body warm and pliant beneath him again, of just having you again.
Your legs hook around his hips, your nose brushes against his, “Remmick…”
He gasps a little, knocking his forehead against yours, “gimmie a minute, jus a minute, lemme feel ya.”
And you do.
And you feel him too.
You feel where your warmth meets his cold, feel where you’re joined not just in body but in soul.
Because you feel it and he does too.
The feeling of the other half of your soul coming back to you.
The feeling of knowing the other half will always come back to you.
And then he moves.
He draws himself out real slow, makes sure you feel it, and then he slams himself right back in.
Not to take, not to be cruel, just to make sure you feel it.
“Ya feel it? Ya feel where I am in ya?” He rasps against your throat while leaving sloppy kisses and nips against your skin.
“Mhm yeah, feel ya, I feel ya, Remmick,” and you do, right in your stomach, deep enough where you think the feeling of him may never leave you.
“Good, cause I ain’t ever leavin’,” he drags himself back out, face still nuzzled in your throat, “even— fuck ya feel so good—” his voice comes out in whimper, “even when I ain’t fillin’ ya, yer gonna know, gonna feel me, not jus in yer stomach baby, in yer soul.”
“I know,” you always could feel him in that soul of yours, like you’d given it right over to him the second you shook his hand and walked away from your life before.
He felt you in his too.
“I mean it,” his voice rasps in your ear between thrusts, “can feel ya in mine, never left me, not ever, no matter where I was—”
A soul trapped in a body that’s been on this earth far too long, and the thing that tamed it into something human again was yours.
The most human piece of him was his heart, and that had stayed with you, no matter how far he’d gone.
You don’t know when you first felt his tears brush against you, but you felt them hit your cheeks all the same, his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes squeezed shut.
“I love ya,” he says it like that act from him is a curse, “and I’m so fuckin’ sorry I do,” the rhythm of his thrusts shifted away from the slow sacred draw of his hips into something frantic and needier.
“Remmick—”
“Cause you ain’t ever gonna get away fr’me now, I tried, darlin’, I tried,” he punctuates his words my slamming into you in a frenzy, grunting against your neck as he speaks, he fucks you like he’s begging for forgiveness, because he is.
His name falls off your tongue like the chant of a hymn, like you’re worshipping him, but you’re cracking him open each time you speak.
“I’ll have ya forever if ya let me, please let me, I can’t— I can’t be without ya, it was killin’ me,” his voice comes out like a choked sob, he’s got you clutched against him as his thrusts get sloppier by the second.
“Remmick,” it’s your turn to clutch at his face, some kind of desperation in your eyes as they meet his teary ones, your hands slip into his hair, cradling his head, forcing him to keep his eyes on you, “ya already have me.”
And that sends him right over the edge, his lips slam against yours as he slams back into you, burying himself in the deepest parts of you, he spills, crying out your name when he does. One hand cradles your face as the other reaches down, rubbing softly at your clit till you’re arching off the bed into his mouth, spilling right along with him.
He doesn’t pull out for a long time, just hovers above you, forehead pressed against yours, eyes slipped shut, just breathing you in. He nuzzles his face back into your neck, nose pressed against your pulse point, feeling the blood thrumming beneath.
“That was a hell of an apology.”
And that makes him breathe out something that sounds like a laugh, “it work?”
And you run a hand through the sweat slicked hair stuck to his forehead, “yeah Remmick, it worked just fine.”
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
When he strips out of his clothes and lays down bare next to you the house exhales, like it’s breathing a sigh of relief.
Its two keepers finally home, finally together.
He’s oddly quiet while he holds you against him, curling an arm protectively around you, anchoring himself to you, like without you, without his heart, he doesn’t know where he’ll wander off to.
“Ya mean it?”
His voice startles you a little after so long of nothing but the sound of wind through the window and the cicadas age old song.
“Mean what?”
“That I have ya? Ya mean that?”
You tilt your head up from where you’ve pressed into his shoulder amidst your tangle of limbs.
“Course I did.”
He hums and nods, eyes distant, thinking, like they’re looking at another place, at another time. When he speaks again his voice is the same as his eyes.
“I meant what I said too,” you look at him again while he speaks, sitting up a little. “I really, fuck me, I really can’t live without ya,” he cradles your cheek again, thumb swiping against your cheekbone soft and tender, “ya give me the word I’ll turn ya.”
“If I said no?”
He sighs, sitting up, leaning back against the old headboard, “then I’d stay, even when your bones creak, and your heart sputters, and your mind ain’t all there no more.”
“And after…?” There’s this sinking in your chest, for how common death had become in your life, you can’t bear to say it here, not to him, to make him face your mortality.
“I’d follow ya, hold ya till your last breath, then I’d carry your body right outside towards the sun, and I’d go right with ya.”
And that makes you shoot up, “Remmick—”
“This ain’t tomorrow darlin’, don’t worry, this ain’t to pressure you neither,” he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, “but bein’ without ya taught me well enough that that’s just not my life no more.”
“I wouldn’t want that.”
And he gives you a sad sort of smile, “I know, but I’d have lived plenty long, ‘specially by then, and my heart’d be gone, no point in stayin’ here without that.”
That settles heavy on your chest. You don’t speak for a long time, just letting him hold you while you think.
“And if I wanted you to?”
He takes a deep breath, smiling at you, “then I’d walk this place with you for eternity, or long as you’d let me.”
“Ya make eternity not sound so bad.”
“With you, I can’t imagine it bein’ bad at all.”
Neither of you speak again till the hands of the clock have ticked by a couple more hours, and dawn threatens itself on the horizon. You stand up out of bed, and he quickly pads after you like a loyal dog. You shut the window and tug the curtains shut tighter.
You break the silence when you turn to him again, chest to chest, “I wantcha to do it.”
“What?”
“Turn me.”
His breath hitches and he takes you in again, “don’t say that unless ya mean it.”
“I do.”
“Yer bones gotta mean it, yer soul—”
You take his hand and place it over your heart, it’s not racing, not jumping or thundering in your chest, “they do Remmick, I do.”
And the way you say it like a vow makes a whimper of sorts escape his throat.
“It’ll hurt.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, ‘s okay, ya got eternity to make up for it.”
He sighs, looks around, you can tell he’s trying hard not to pounce on you and just do it, he wants so badly for you to be sure, for you to mean it.
“Ain’t no goin’ back.
“I know,” you reach out, take his hand and squeeze it real tight, “jus’ you, me and eternity.”
And that breaks him.
He takes the time to make it soft, feel like a ritual. He dresses you in fine clothes, the kind better men than either of you might wear to church, once upon a time they probably were somebody’s church clothes. He buttons each button of your shirt with the same level of sanctity and care that someone would take communion with, leaving all but two buttoned, to expose your neck and collarbone. He smoothes out the shirt and kisses your cheek before he helps you into slacks, tucking in your shirt gently.
He lets you help him dress too. Slipping on his shirt, pressing kisses to his neck and collarbone as you button it. Pulling his suspenders over his shoulders. You work slow, like you’re making sure every detail of him is perfect.
He sits down on the bed first, pulling you into his lap, legs splayed over either side of his thighs. He looks up at you for a moment, “’m never leavin’ ya again.”
“Won’t have much of a choice after this.”
He chuckles, breathy and quiet, “no, I supposed I won’t.”
He leans in pressing a kiss to your pulse point one last time, then he lays his head on your chest.
“What’re ya—”
“Jus’... I gotta hear it beat, jus’ a little longer…”
And he listens, the soft and steady thrumming beneath your ribcage soothes his last nerves. If he could bottle that sound he would. One day it would be a distant memory, one that tethered him to a before, but when he sits back up and you smile at him he knows that smile of yours will always tether him to the present, no matter where and when that might be.
He brushes your shirt back a little, exposing your warm skin to the air. The house seems to hold its breath.
“Darlin’, why don’t ya go on and close yer eyes for me now.”
When your eyes slip shut you feel the ghost of his lips against your skin, not biting yet, just probing. You feel the tips of his teeth when he’s about to bite down, your body goes rigid, hair standing up on end, you feel a clawed hand rub your back softly.
“Trust me.”
For a second you think you hear your Daddy, preaching about the devil, preaching about hell, preaching about his lost daughter. Then all you hear is the tear of flesh, and somehow, that frightens you less.
Your eyes fly open and your fingers curl into his shirt. For a second you’re afraid. For a second all you feel is white, hot pain. You think you scream, but you never hear it. You feel your heart, how it speeds up, surging like it’s trying to save you, and then you feel it give. The edges of your vision start to go black, the last thing you see is Remmick pulling back to look at you, hand rubbing your back, chin stained with blood, eyes wide, smile soft, beautiful.
“I gotcha, ‘s okay, I gotcha.”
And then there’s nothing.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆
You wake laid back against the pillows, blood staining your shirt, arms laid over your chest, a dried bouquet that you know was previously hanging in the kitchen laid beneath them, a shiny gold ring slipped onto your left ring finger.
You wake to the world more in focus, sharper, brighter, louder.
You wake to nightfall. It’d been that long already.
But most importantly, you wake alone.
Panic seizes your chest for a moment. You know it all wasn’t a dream solely based on your blood stained shirt and the fact you can’t feel your own heartbeat anymore.
Right as you tear out of the bedroom in a panic, you hear it. The sound that means “‘m home darlin’.”
The rustle of windchimes on the porch.
And when you see his red eyes glowing through the screen smile, dead deer he dragged there laying on the porch behind him, your first meal after being turned.
“I told ya, windchimes’ll always tell ya when ‘m home.”
And he’ll always come home to you.
⋆⁺₊⋆ fin⋆⁺₊⋆
a/n: Welp this beat out my last one for the longest one-shot I've put out. Should I make a masterlist???? I hope y'all enjoyed, and I'll see ya in the next <3
Want more from me? Checkout my masterlist here !!!
Disclaimer. Validation doesn't come from people or what other people think of you, but sometimes it helps when the people you love remind you that you're seen. (I had this dream, and I just needed some comfort after, and the people I love really did that for me) sending a big hug to my trans fellas out there ♡♡♡
Minghao is the mentor for a new batch of trainees and catches M/n, an unmotivated and conscious trainee in a way no one can quite explain. They spend time in the studio together. Maybe too much. The others are jealous. But nothing is stopping him from teaching his boy his body is beautiful.
Do it like how you taught me, Make bands by my lonely
♱ PAIRING : XU MINGHAO X MALE READER
♱ CONTENT WARNING : This writing contains VERY explicit sexual content and mature themes.
♱ AUTHOR'S NOTE : Um... so once again I got carried away... 20 pages... tah dah!
LINKS : Wattpad
The studio was alive with movement, the rhythmic pounding of feet against the polished wood floor syncing with the bass-heavy track playing overhead. The air smelled of sweat and determination, a reminder of the countless hours poured into perfecting every step, every breath, every motion.
M/n stood at the back of the room, trying to blend in, but it was impossible. His movements weren’t sharp, his footwork not crisp. He could feel the stares, the subtle shifts in the energy around him and other trainees noticing, judging.
“Again,” the dance coach called out. The music restarted, M/n clenched his fists before throwing himself back into the choreography. He knew he wasn’t the best, but he refused to be the worst.
The murmurs started the second he stumbled.
“He’s still struggling?” someone muttered under their breath. A quiet scoff from another trainee followed.
M/n bit down on the inside of his cheek. Then, the music cut off abruptly.
"Alright, take five. Everyone, except you." The unfamiliar voice was firm but smooth, and the moment M/n turned to look, his breath caught.
Xu Minghao stood near the mirrors, arms crossed, eyes sharp and assessing. The dancer, Seventeen’s performance powerhouse, was watching him.
M/n swallowed hard. His muscles ached from overwork, his chest tight from exertion, but nothing compared to the weight of Minghao’s gaze on him.
"You," Minghao continued, taking a step closer, "stay back. The rest of you, get some water."
The trainees hesitated, some exchanging glances before filing out. Their silent judgment burned against M/n’s skin.
Minghao watched him for a long moment before speaking again, pointing to the floor, still comfortably leaning against the mirror.
"Show me the last section of the routine."
M/n exhaled sharply, nodding, wiping the sweat on his palms on his sweatpants. He stepped into position, body tense with nerves, and the music started again. He moved, he tried. He failed.
Minghao clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "You're too stiff," he said, stepping forward. "You're overthinking. Let me show you."
Before M/n could react, Minghao was behind him, close enough that M/n could feel the warmth of his presence. Slender fingers traced his skin as he guided his arms into the right position, fingers skimming his wrist, adjusting his posture.
M/n's breath hitched.
"Relax," Minghao murmured, voice low, close to his ear. "Feel the movement, don't fight it."
The words sent a shiver down M/n’s spine, but he nodded, forcing himself to focus. He had to. He couldn’t afford to fall behind. Not in dance, not in his dreams. And definitely not because of the sudden, unwanted spark curling in his chest.
Not for his mentor.
Not for Xu Minghao.
M/n took a steadying breath, forcing himself to focus on Minghao’s instructions rather than the way his mentor’s touch lingered just long enough to make his pulse quicken.
“Again,” Minghao said, stepping back.
The music restarted, and this time, M/n moved with more fluidity. His muscles still burned from exhaustion, but the difference was immediate. The moment he stopped fighting the choreography, it started to feel… natural.
Minghao watched intently, nodding slightly as M/n executed the steps with newfound ease. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. When the routine ended, the silence stretched, save for the sound of M/n’s heavy breathing.
Minghao’s lips quirked slightly. “See? You can do it.”
M/n wiped the sweat from his forehead, his heart hammering from more than just exertion. “Barely.”
“If you were hopeless, I wouldn’t be wasting my time.” Minghao’s tone was calm, matter-of-fact. He wasn’t giving compliments; he was stating a fact.
Still, something in M/n’s chest fluttered at the words.
The studio door opened, and the other trainees filtered back in. Some shot him unreadable glances, while others ignored him entirely. The shift in atmosphere was subtle, but it was there; the quiet resentment of those who had watched M/n struggle, only to see him get special attention from Xu Minghao himself.
Minghao seemed to notice too, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he clapped his hands together. “Break’s over. Let’s get back to work.”
M/n exhaled, shaking off the unease creeping up his spine. It didn’t matter what the others thought. He wasn’t here to impress them. He was here to prove to himself, to the company, to Minghao; that he belonged.
As the next round of practice began, M/n threw himself into the dance, pushing past the doubt and the whispers. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t ignore the weight of Minghao’s gaze on him.
And he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
`` Days blurred together in an endless cycle of training, evaluations, and exhaustion. The choreography became muscle memory, but M/n's mind never settled. The studio had become a battlefield; one where every misstep felt like a bullet, and every success only fueled the silent resentment simmering around him.
`Minghao remained a constant presence, his mentoring sharp and precise. He pushed M/n harder than the others, but in a way that felt deliberate, almost as if he was testing him.
One evening, after an especially grueling session, M/n lingered behind in the studio, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Sweat dripped from his temples, his shirt clinging to his body. He should have left already, but his frustration wouldn’t let him.
Why do I still feel behind?
The door creaked open.
"You’re overthinking again."
M/n startled, turning to find Minghao leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. His sharp gaze softened slightly as he stepped forward.
M/n swallowed. "I just… I don’t get why it’s so easy for everyone else."
Minghao hummed, stopping just a step away. “It’s not.”
M/n scoffed. “You don’t see them struggling like I do.”
"Because they hide it." Minghao tilted his head. "Like you're trying to right now."
M/n froze. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was clenching his fists until Minghao’s gaze flickered to them.
"You’re improving, M/n." Minghao’s voice was quieter now. "But dance isn’t just about the moves. It’s about trust."
"Trust?" M/n frowned.
Minghao nodded. "In yourself. In your body. In the movement. You fight it too much."
M/n huffed. "Maybe because I keep feeling like I don’t belong here."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Silence settled between them. Minghao studied him for a long moment before speaking again, his voice firm but calm.
"If you didn’t belong, I wouldn’t be wasting my time on you."
The words hit deeper than M/n expected.
For the first time in weeks, the tight knot in his chest loosened just slightly.
Minghao didn’t offer more reassurance; he simply turned toward the sound system. "One more time. Just you and me."
M/n hesitated before nodding.
The music started, and this time, M/n let himself move. He let himself trust.
And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was chasing the rhythm.
He was dancing with it.
And Minghao was watching.
M/n woke up sore the next morning, his body aching from the extra practice with Minghao. But despite the exhaustion, a sense of accomplishment settled in his chest. For once, he wasn’t drowning in self-doubt.
Yet, as soon as he stepped into the practice room, the atmosphere felt… different.
The other trainees were already stretching, but the usual chatter was subdued. A few pairs of eyes flickered toward him, whispers exchanged just low enough that he couldn’t make out the words.
M/n exhaled sharply, pushing down the unease.
He knew the others had noticed the extra attention Minghao gave him. He knew they probably thought he was getting special treatment. But they weren’t there when I stayed late. They weren’t there when I worked myself to the bone.
"Suck up," someone muttered as he passed by.
M/n’s jaw clenched, but he ignored it, focusing on his warm-up.
When Minghao walked in a few minutes later, the tension in the room only thickened. He greeted the group briefly, eyes scanning the trainees before landing on M/n for just a second too long. M/n looked away, hoping no one noticed.
They did.
Practice was brutal. Minghao wasn’t holding back today, pushing them harder than ever. M/n did his best to keep up, but every time he executed the moves, he could feel the weight of eyes on him.
Then, during a water break, the whispering turned into something worse.
"Did you hear?" one of the trainees said just loud enough for M/n to catch. "Minghao’s been giving private lessons."
M/n’s stomach twisted.
"I've noticed he’s a lot more flexible." another voice joined in. "I think he’s getting stretched out a different way then us."
Laughter. A sharp, bitter kind.
M/n’s grip tightened around his water bottle. He forced himself to stay silent, to not let them see that their words had gotten under his skin.
But Minghao had heard.
"Line up," Minghao’s voice cut through the tension, sharper than usual.
The trainees scrambled into position, but the mood had already shifted.
Minghao’s eyes flickered toward M/n, unreadable, but something about his posture had changed.
He had heard everything.
And he wasn’t going to ignore it.
M/n forced himself to focus, but his mind raced with the words he had just heard. Private lessons. Getting ahead. It wasn’t just whispers anymore; it was an accusation.
Minghao stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he scanned the group. His presence was always commanding, but today, there was something sharper in his gaze.
"Let me make one thing very clear." His voice was calm, but the weight behind it made the room feel smaller. "In this industry, you earn your place. No exceptions."
No one dared to speak.
"If someone is improving, it’s because they’re putting in the work," Minghao continued, his eyes sweeping over the trainees. "If they stay behind after hours, if they push themselves past their limits, if they refuse to give up no matter how hard it gets; that’s why they get better."
M/n’s breath hitched.
Minghao took a slow step forward, gaze locking onto the group. "But if anyone here thinks they can undermine someone else’s progress because of their own insecurities, you’re free to leave now. Because if I catch any more of this petty, baseless gossip-" he let the words settle, his voice dipping lower, "you won’t last here."
Silence. Heavy and suffocating.
M/n could feel the shift in the room. No one met Minghao’s gaze, but the shame was palpable. The whispers wouldn’t vanish overnight, but Minghao had drawn a line.
Then, just as quickly as the moment came, Minghao clapped his hands together. "Now, unless you’d rather gossip, we’re running the routine from the top."
The music started, and M/n exhaled.
For the first time, he didn’t feel alone.
Minghao had defended him. Publicly. Unapologetically.
And no matter how much M/n tried to ignore it, his heart raced at the thought.
The shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. After Minghao’s warning, the whispers didn’t completely stop, but they dulled into background noise. The jealousy hadn’t disappeared, but no one dared to openly challenge M/n anymore.
Still, the weight of their eyes lingered.
Minghao didn’t treat him any differently in front of the others, but there was something there, something unspoken, simmering beneath the surface.
It was in the way he lingered just a second longer when adjusting M/n’s form. The way his gaze followed M/n when he thought no one was looking. The way his voice softened ever so slightly when speaking to him.
M/n told himself it was just his imagination.
But then came the partnering exercise.
Minghao had decided to challenge them with a new routine; one that required working in pairs to test their synchronization and connection.
And when it came time to assign partners, Minghao didn’t hesitate.
"M/n, with me."
The room was silent for a fraction too long.
M/n swallowed. "O-Okay."
As the other trainees moved into their own pairings, M/n found himself standing directly in front of Minghao. The height difference was subtle, but noticeable enough that M/n felt it as they took their positions.
Minghao placed a hand on M/n’s waist, his grip firm but controlled. "Relax," he instructed. "You’re too tense."
"I’m trying not to be," M/n muttered.
Minghao smirked, just barely. "Then let’s fix it."
The music started, and M/n focused on moving with the rhythm. But it was impossible to ignore how close they were; how every shift, every step, brought him within inches of Minghao’s frame.
When Minghao guided him into a turn, his grip tightened, steadying him effortlessly. M/n’s pulse stuttered.
"You’re hesitating," Minghao said.
"I-" M/n faltered as their eyes met.
Minghao’s gaze was unreadable, but there was something intense in the way he was looking at him. Something that made M/n’s breath catch.
"Don’t hesitate," Minghao said, voice quieter this time.
M/n nodded, but his heart was beating far too fast for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance.
They moved together, the world fading around them. And for just a moment, it didn’t feel like practice.
It felt like something else entirely.
The music swelled, and they moved as one.
M/n had stopped thinking, stopped overanalyzing every step, every motion. His body followed Minghao’s lead instinctively, matching his rhythm, his energy. It was effortless. Natural.
Minghao’s hand was firm on his waist, guiding him through the turn. The proximity between them was undeniable, but M/n barely had time to process it before Minghao executed the final move; a deep dip, pulling M/n flush against him.
M/n’s breath hitched.
His back arched slightly over Minghao’s arm, and for a split second, they weren’t just two dancers in sync.
They were something more.
The studio felt too quiet, the air thick with something neither of them dared to name.
Minghao didn’t let go immediately. His grip on M/n’s waist lingered, just a second too long. And when M/n’s gaze flickered up, their eyes locked.
The tension snapped tight.
It was in the way Minghao’s fingers curled slightly, holding him in place. The way his lips parted, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself.
M/n barely realized he was gripping onto Minghao’s arm until he felt the heat of his skin beneath his fingertips.
Then Minghao inhaled sharply; just a small, barely audible breath and that was enough to jolt them both back to reality.
He released M/n, stepping back. "Again," he said, voice neutral, but there was an edge to it—like he was forcing himself to sound unaffected.
M/n swallowed hard, nodding. "Right. Again."
But as they reset into position, his pulse refused to settle.
And when they moved together once more, M/n couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just come dangerously close to crossing a line neither of them was ready to acknowledge.
The tension between them didn’t fade. If anything, it only grew stronger.
Days passed, filled with grueling practice sessions and lingering glances. M/n told himself it was just in his head, but he could feel it every time Minghao adjusted his form, every time their fingers brushed, every time their eyes met for just a second too long.
It was a slow, torturous build-up, a silent push and pull neither of them acknowledged.
Until one night, when the studio was empty, and there was nowhere left to hide.
M/n had stayed behind again, practicing long after the others had left. He was exhausted, his body screaming for rest, but he couldn’t stop. Not yet.
The music played softly in the background as he moved through the steps, his reflection staring back at him in the mirror. But something was off, his timing, his balance. Frustration bubbled up, and he ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply.
"You’re pushing yourself too hard."
M/n startled at the voice, whipping around to see Minghao leaning against the doorframe.
"Thought you left," M/n muttered, trying to steady his breath.
Minghao stepped inside, his eyes scanning M/n carefully. "I was going to. Then I saw the lights still on."
M/n huffed. "Figured I’d get in some extra practice."
Minghao crossed his arms. "You don’t need more practice."
M/n scoffed. "You sure? Because it feels like I do."
Minghao exhaled, stepping closer. "You’re not struggling with the choreography anymore, M/n. That’s not why you’re still here."
M/n froze.
Minghao studied him, his gaze unreadable but intense. "You’re fighting something. And it’s not the dance."
Silence stretched between them. M/n felt his pulse quicken, his body growing warmer under Minghao’s unwavering stare.
It would be so easy to deny it; to laugh it off, change the subject. But in this quiet, empty studio, with nothing but the sound of their breathing between them…
Lying didn’t feel like an option.
M/n swallowed. "And if I am?"
Minghao’s eyes flickered with something, something dangerous. "Then stop fighting."
M/n’s breath caught.
The distance between them felt smaller than before. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, Minghao was right there, close enough that M/n could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that if he just leaned in…
"You drive me crazy, you know that?" Minghao murmured, his voice quieter now, lower. "I tried ignoring it. I tried pretending it wasn’t there. But every time I watch you dance, every time I correct you, every time you look at me like that-"
He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "I can’t ignore it anymore."
M/n’s heart pounded. "Then don’t."
For a moment, they just stood there, breaths mingling in the stillness of the studio.
Then, finally, finally, Minghao closed the distance.
It wasn’t rushed or hesitant it was slow, deliberate, a silent answer to everything they had been holding back. M/n melted into it, his fingers curling around Minghao’s shirt, anchoring himself.
M/n felt his world tilt on its axis as their lips met. It was soft at first, a gentle press of mouths, but quickly turned into a desperate kiss, the passion igniting.
Minghao tasted of mint and determination. His hands, earlier strict and disciplined in their corrections, now explored M/n's back under his shirt with a tenderness that belied their usual professional demeanor. Fingers tangled in hair, breaths mingled, and the studio filled with the soft sounds of their mutual surrender.
M/n was lost in the kiss, in the warmth and comfort of finally giving in to his feelings. He felt Minghao's arms wrap around him, holding him close as if he might disappear if he let go. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic as their hunger for each other overwhelmed any remaining restraint.
Minghao pinned M/n against the studio mirror, his body flush against the other's. He trailed kisses along M/n's jawline, pausing to nip gently at his earlobe.
“Is this okay?” Minghao asked, keeping apart from M/n’s lips for just a second as he held his face close by the back of his head, fingers entangled in his hair.
“Yes,” M/n reassured, looking through his long eyelashes up at Minghao.`
"Good..." he whispered, catching M/n's bottom lip between his teeth gently. His hands started to trail down from M/n's neck, across his collarbones, to the hem of his shirt. "Can I..." he asked softly, fingers grazing the bare skin of his stomach. "Take this off?"
“Mm,” M/n hummed.
Slowly, almost reverently, Minghao eased M/n's shirt upwards. His calloused fingers brushed along M/n's sides, sending shivers across his skin as the fabric slid off completely. Minghao drank in the sight of M/n's bare torso, eyes darkening with appreciation. "Beautiful,"
“You’re just saying that...”
“Look at me,” he demanded softly, his fingers hooking into the waistband of M/n’s pant. He wanted M/n to see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he was looking at M/n like he was a prized possession.
Minghao leaned in and placed a soft kiss on M/n’s neck, his warm breath fanning across his skin as he spoke. “I’m saying it because it’s true,” he murmured, his fingers slowly untying M/n’s sweatpants, “You’re so fucking beautiful, M/n.”
He gently pushed M/n’s pants down, hooping around his thigh along with his undergarments, reveling his slim hips and thighs. He trailed kisses down M/n’s chest, his abs, and then finally his thighs as he helped M/n step out of his clothes, “Lift your arms,” he whispered.
M/n followed instructions. The damp t-shirt slipped off his body, then their forehead pressed together for a moment, peppering kisses as Minghao drank in his junior's body, “Fuck...” he breathed, admiring M/n’s naked form in the studio mirror light, “You’re so perfect,” He trailed a hand down M/n’s side.
Minghao began to remove his own clothes. His shirt was discarded quickly with the help of M/n, reveling taut muscles and smooth skin. His pants followed soon after, leaving his bare before M/n. M/n stood starstruck. He’d never in a million years think his idol would be au naturel right in front of him.
Minghao stepped back closer, his hands framing M/n’s waist possessively. He nuzzled his face into M/n’s neck, inhaling his scent deeply. “Turn around,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I wanna see you from every angle.”
Guided by Minghao’s hand, M/n turned and faced the mirror.
One hand snaked around M/n’s waist, resting low on his stomach. The other traced up his chest, brushing against a nipple. “Look at yourself...”
M/n looked into the mirror. He was in awe at himself. He didn’t recognize himself. In Minghao’s arms, he felt sexier, more alive, more than what anyone could tell him.
Minghao wrapped him arms around him, placing a kiss on M/n’s shoulder, smiling onto his skin, “See how stunning you are?”
M/n’s lips curved into a soft smile as covered Minghao’s hands with his own, relishing the feeling of their naked bodies pressed together. “Every curve, every line...” Minghao cooed, his hands roaming over M/n’s torso, “Absolutely gorgeous.”
“I want you,” M/n whispered breathy, almost not aware he said that out loud.
Minghao’s breath hitched at M/n’s confession. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips as he felt a shudder run through M/n’s body. “Fuck, I want you too. You deserve it.”
M/n leaned back into Minghao’s embrace as their fingers locked over M/n’s chest. His breath caught in his throat as he felt M/n’s weight settled against him. “Let me treat you like the prince you are.”
Minghao slips his fingers into his own mouth, covering it in his spit. He slowly trails those wet fingers down M/n’s backside, pushing M/n gently into the mirror.
He spread M/n’s legs apart with his thigh as he slowly circled his wet fingers around M/n’s entrance, teasing and preparing him gently. He looked at the scene in the mirror, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in the reflected image of M/n panting, sweat sticking to his forehead and the mirror.
His finger slowly pushed inside M/n, watching carefully for any signs of discomfort, “Good, baby.” He cooed, his free hand slid around to grip M/n’s erection. He saw M/n’s reflection, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure as he hissed and ahed.
Pushing his fingers deeper, he started stroking M/n in rhythm with each thrust, his hand working the younger’s length perfectly. In the mirror he could just see how turned on M/n was, “Look at how beautiful you are taking my fingers,” His teeth nipping at M/n’s ear.
Minghao withdrew his fingers, leaving M/n trembling with need. Holding M/n by the hips, Minghao guided him to bend forward slightly, pressing his chest his back as he hooked his chin on M/n’s shoulder, locking a hand together in front of him as his other positioned himself at M/n’s entrance.
He slowly pushed in, giving M/n time to adjust. Minghao’s fingernails dug into M/n’s hips as gently as possible, M/n’s hand gripping tightly in his. Minghao pulled back slowly. Almost withdrawing completely before snapping his hips forward again.
“Fuck... God...” Minghao groaned deeply, pleasure rolling through him as he watched M/n accept him so perfectly. In and out, he had a set steady rhythm, his hips rocking forward and pulling back, watching the erotic sight of their coupling in the mirror.
“Hao, f-fuck,” M/n choked, the vibration of his moans and whines bouncing off the mirror. Minghao’s lips curl into a smile at M/n calling out his name so lude. His togue ghost his lips briefly at the needy whimpers.
M/n could feel his release building in his stomach, his thighs shook and he practically was scream for a resolve. Minghao reached his hand back around M/m’s leaking length, stroking him in time with his thrusts, “Come for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire but so sweet like his smirk as M/n came undone, him following suit.
He felt M/n’s released pulse through him, hot and west against his hand. The sight of M/n falling apart in the mirror, pleasure contorting his features, stuttered as he came hard, burying himself deep inside M/n with a choked groan, then a sweet string moans straight in M/n’s ear.
As the final shudders of their releases faded, Minghao stayed buried deep inside M/n, holding him close. He peppered soft kisses along his junior's shoulder blade, murmuring praises between each gentle press of his lips.
The next morning, nothing had changed.
And yet, everything had.
M/n and Minghao returned to practice like nothing had happened. They kept their distance, their interactions no different from before, strictly professional, strictly normal. No one batted an eye.
But beneath the surface, there were cracks in the facade.
It was in the fleeting glances they shared when no one was looking. The way Minghao’s hand brushed against M/n’s lower back for just a second too long when adjusting his form. The way M/n held his breath whenever Minghao got too close, because now he knew what it felt like to have that distance erased.
And then there were the nights.
When practice ended and the others left, and Minghao would find an excuse to stay behind. When M/n would linger in the studio just a little longer, waiting. When the silence between them carried an entirely new weight; one filled with stolen moments, quiet confessions, and the unspoken promise of more.
They weren’t reckless, but they weren’t distant either.
Late at night, after the world had gone still, they met in empty studios and whispered things they couldn’t say in daylight. Minghao would pull M/n close, pressing lazy kisses to his temple, murmuring things like, "You’re getting better." "You’re going to make it." "I’ll be right here."
And M/n would believe him.
Because despite the secrecy, despite the world they lived in; the competition, the expectations, the scrutiny, this felt real.
And for now, that was enough.
As M/n packed up his things after another long day, he felt the familiar presence before he even turned around.
"You’re staying late again?" Minghao’s voice was quiet, just for him.
M/n smiled. "Depends. Are you?"
Minghao’s lips twitched. "If you are."
The answer was unspoken, but they both understood.
So as the doors shut behind the last of the trainees, and the studio emptied once more, M/n turned to face Minghao; his partner, his mentor, his secret.
And in the soft glow of the practice room lights, as they stepped toward each other again, M/n knew this was just the beginning.
⌗ summary. . . you went with your fuck buddy to the pool… that was your first mistake.
⌗ includes. . . sub!reader, fwb!swimmer!anton, public sex (pls don't esp not this one), unprotected sex (also don't),
⌗ wc. 2.5k
°A/N. . . sorta requested but also not really,, also not proofread nor very pretty or as descriptive as i like to be im so sorry this is just what you get when im horny bc these pictures ruined my life
you knew much better than to agree to joining anton lee at the pool of all places.
being a lifetime friend (occasionally with benefits) of his, you knew the swimmer could spend hours upon hours at the pool and not feel an ounce of exhaustion. he'd often convince you to stay long after you finished swimming yourself, just to wait for him to complete his cool down routine before driving you home.
the worst thing of all, though, was that you were constantly reminded just how much he had hidden underneath those oversized sweaters and jeans that he always wore. behind that whole shy boy aesthetic he had going on, was the physique of what you could only compare to a greek god, and even he knew it.
you never got used to it - seeing anton's chiseled body exposed in the aquatic habitat that felt like a second home to him. no matter how sweet his smile or how loud his laugh, nothing could distract you from drooling over a body like that cutting through the water with such ease. it was even worse because the sweet boy knew exactly what he did to you.
he tried to cut you some slack, though, respecting your effort to seem unbothered every time he'd peel his layers of clothing off before jumping into the pool, wearing nothing but his tight blue swim trunks that suffocated his muscular thighs.
one time he even pretended not to notice how you were so worked up after a race with him that you had to go not-so-subtly get yourself off in the community bathroom.
in your defense, it was a heated indoor pool, and he had completely annihilated you in the race. that proud smirk paired with the steam rising from his rippling back muscles had you biting back moans from the sight alone. so naturally, it was to no one's surprise once things turned physical between you both.
the adrenaline that swimming gave anton put him on cloud nine, and being the stubborn ass that you were, you were determined to somehow beat this pro swimmer in a race - only for it to end with you losing miserably and somehow hornier than when you started. one thing would always lead to another, a taunting comment thrown your way turning into his bare back pressed against the cool tiles of the changing room while you yanked his swim shorts down low enough to take his throbbing cock into your mouth.
but today you were going to be good.
you hadn't hooked up with anton for a while, and were truly only tagging along because he needed a friend to time his laps for the upcoming season.
however, it'd be a lie to say you didn't have to give yourself a prep talk as you set your things down on the pool chairs, noticing nobody was there tonight. it was business as usual, though. anton always convinced the coach to let him have later access while the rest of the team went home so he could focus. you just found it harder to control yourself around him when left alone like this, but tonight you had a new type of dedication to simply swim, help your friend, and go home.
besides, why would it be so difficult for you to keep it in your pants for just one night?
‘oh, thats why.’ you groaned internally as you watched anton strip his shirt from over his head.
fuck, had he been bulking up?
you pretend not to notice how his biceps flex as he runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair while you stripped down to your swim trunks as well. god, his skin was practically glowing even from the dingy indoor lighting.
your head whipped around back towards his direction when you heard a low hiss, watching his face scrunch slightly as he stepped down the pool's ladder. your dick twitched a bit at the sight of his furrowing brows and low groan as he sunk deeper into the water, but you mentally slapped yourself back to reality.
"what's with you?" you questioned approaching the steps, getting ready to enter as well.
"shit, i forgot to remind coach to turn the heaters on tonight," he responded. "its freezing."
you thought he was being dramatic, but the chilly water indeed bit back when you lowered your ankles in. you decided against submerging for now, simply swirling your legs in circles while you spun anton's stopwatch in your hand.
anton began a quick warm up, stretching and dunking himself udner water several times and adjusting quickly to the temperature. his wet hair splaying out around his face made him even more gorgeous than he already was, and you felt your cheeks gain a sickening warmth.
"alright bro, let's get started." you cleared your throat, speaking up to hurry the process along before your resolve crumbled.
"sure, bro." he mocked before sending a wink your way. shit, he was already on to you.
anton held eye contact with you as he hoisted himself out of the water to walk over to the swim lanes, causing your breath to silently falter. your instincts made you the first to break contact though, as your eyes followed the droplets that slid down his broad chest, past his perked nipples, over his abs and eventually disappear into his waistband.
god, you were such a pervert. and he loved it so much.
only 30 minutes into his laps you found yourself desperately missing the shy boy act that he would put on for every body else. once he was in athlete mode, the confidence in his demeanor made your self control fly out the window. it didn't make sense how someone as massive as him could practically fly through the water, flexing every inch of his muscle like it was nothing.
it forced you to reminisce on how he was in bed, constantly taking you with his immense stamina. he could toss and turn you in any way at any given pace, constantly making you see stars like it was nothing — even when you were the one to start things, he made sure to finish them. you remembered the way his lean muscle would tighten and ripple in your grasp, holding on for dear life as you begged for him to thrust into you harder or squeeze you tighter.
get it together, y/n.
if you had a dollar for every time you'd had to yank yourself out of the gutter in just the span of one hour, you'd be rich enough to drop out of school.
you had allowed yourself to sit calf deep in the water at the end of the racing lane, but it wasn't until he reached you after knocking out 3 laps in a row that you regretted your decision. he emerged from the water with a big splash, throwing his head back and letting out the most erotic sigh you could imagine as he finally let air reach his lungs.
a lump formed in your throat, watching anton's buff chest rise and fall in tune with his breaths while both long arms gripped the edge of the pool on either side of your legs.
"what was my time for those?" the swimmer finally asked you once he had stabilized his breathing.
"oh! right, uhm...." you snap out of your chance, gut dropping when you looked down to the stop watching still ticking in your hand.
"you forgot to stop it, didn't you?" anton asked, a tone of more amusement rather than annoyance seeping through his smirk. "don't tell me you got distracted?"
"shit, i'm sorry." you groaned, annoyed with your own sexual frustration overtaking your ability to play it cool.
"it's fine." anton shrugged, pulling his body out of the water and plotting on to the ledge next you, making you flinched as copious amounts of water splashed around the concrete. "just let me fuck you."
your eyes widened, looking up to his mischievous eyes, and you swear you felt him leaning closer.
"what the fuck, ton?" you gasped, slightly punching his arm, savoring the split second of contact you made with his warm skin.
"god, its been like a month, y/n. i can't focus on conditioning and you can't even click a button for me, clearly." he chuckled. "lets just do it so i can have a good season."
you couldn't believe the causality he was saying all of this with. he did always call you his good luck charm, somehow managing to break his own personal record anytime you'd let him hit the night before or suck you off right before a meet, swallowing your cum like it was his own lewd type of protein shake.
it would also be a lie to an insane degree to say you didn't miss the way his soft skin felt gliding along yours whenever he would grind into you, his huge hands giving you a sense of stability in the way he would hold you down.
anton could tell from the way you were shamelessly biting your lip that you were thinking about it, taking the initiative to push your shoulders down until you were on your back.
he had barely let you utter out a desperate "okay" before he was rolling over on top of you, not hesitating for a second to drop his hips directly over yours so you could feel how hard his bulge had already gotten. you moaned aloud, hips immediately bucking up to meet his as he lowered his head to your neck, feathering wet kisses along your column.
the water dripping from his body was cold, but the warmth of his torso easily overcame it all when you needly reached for his back to pull the entirety of his weight onto you. you didn't realize how much you missed the rippling of his shoulder blades beneath your palms until you felt his body rolling in perfect tune with yours. you ran your hands all over his chiseled torso as you felt his hardened nipples brush against yours, and while you hopelessly wanted more you also didn't want this feeling to stop.
you felt a little pitiful, just sitting there allowing yourself to moan in pure bliss as your wet bodies press into each other, gripping anton's wide shoulders as his kisses picked up in heat. he was sucking hickeys into the sweet spot of your neck while his swim trunks tightened more and more as he humped against you, making you dizzier by the second.
"you sound so fucking hot whimpering for me like that." he moaned, licking a long trail up your neck to your jaw.
you didn't have any time to respond before he was pulling you into a searing kiss, his plump lips sloppily devouring yours while groaning into your mouth. you realized how much you missed the way he tasted, and silently cursed at yourself for going this long without him. you broke the kiss as your lungs began to need air, moaning out his name, just for him to grab your jaw and bring you back in for an overwhelmingly kiss. he was taking over every sense you had, filling your entire consciousness with nothing but thoughts of him. your hips bucked up incessantly, your body begging for him before your mouth could.
the hard concrete beneath you was starting to cause your limbs to ache as anton's mass pressed deeper into you, and he seemed to have read your mind, because before you knew it he was lifting himself off of you and dragging you into the water.
your mind was much too hazy to even register the vast difference in temperature, especially when you were clinging to anton like you needed him to breathe. it was as if something had taken over you and put you in the passenger seat of your own movements - all you could feel yourself doing was mumbling some endless pleas for him to fuck you before pulling him in to reconnect your lips in a hot kiss.
you could feel anton's shit eating grin against your lips as he backed you up against the poolside, slightly lifting his leg against the lower pool wall in order to guide you grinding your cock against his thigh. he took advantage of your loud moan to suck on your tongue, loving the way your fingers curled into his wet hair.
there was only so much you could handle before you were reaching below the water to pull your own swim trunks off, deciding that if anton didn't fuck you right then you might actually explode. anton helped you discard the shorts and send them flying somewhere atop of the water. the second you were free, you felt your cock on his abs, causing your hips to take action and grind against the muscle before you could even think about what you were doing.
some combined variant of a choked laugh and moan left antons mouth as he watched you throw your head back, obsessed with the way you were using his body to chase the pleasure you craved. he decided that he had his fun, slipping free from his trunks as well and lining himself up against you.
"deep breaths, baby." anton whispered, trying to sound confident but coming out as shaky neediness as well. you would normally laugh at how it almost sounded as if he were advising himself, but you were too far gone.
when he finally bottomed out in you, his size and the pressure of the water had your mind in a different realm. you clung to anton's round shoulders as he held you securely, giving you time to adjust after not having him in you for a month.
"this little ass still so tight and ready for me, i knew you missed me." he sighed out, giving you small experimenting rolls of his hips.
when you gripped him tighter and started fucking yourself on his cock, he knew he was in the clear to send you to oblivion, and thats exactly what he did.
between anton's desperation and the feeling of your member rubbing along his built torso, it didn't take much for either of you to approach your highs rapidly. you were soon announcing them to each other while you clung your slippery bodies tight together, the once still water around you turning into nothing less of a tsunami.
"'m cumming, ton." you cried out, just for him to hum in agreement.
he held the back of your neck, pushing your head down to make eye contact with him as you both hit your climax at the same time, an oddly intimate feeling settling over you in the moment and making your skin buzz.
panting against each other's faces, anton leaned in to claim your lips once more before you were both giggling like a couple of fools, padding your hands around the water as you brought yourselves down to earth.
it took a couple of moments for you to gasp horrendously at the realization of what you both just did, looking to anton with so much terror etched in your eyebrows that he couldn't help but laugh.
"did we just- the school's pool- we-" you sputtered aimlessly, only stopping once anton's hand emerged from the water to cover your mouth.
"don't worry about it, coach will handle it. he won't mind, because after that i'm about to bring this school three new medals this year."
"y/n, what are you doing awake at this hour?" Jeonghan yawned as he walked into the kitchen.
"I wasn't sleepy, so I was getting breakfast ready," you replied while chopping some vegetables on the kitchen counter.
A lazy Jeonghan approached you and rested his chin on your shoulder; he enjoyed doing that and watching what you were doing, it was a perfect excuse to spend time with you while you’re doing the household chores. However, this time he didn’t seem very interested in just watching your cooking skills.
"Let’s go to the bed," he said lazily, "I’ll grab something on the way to work."
"Just strawberry milk isn’t breakfast," you chuckled softly, not paying much attention, "I’m almost done, I just need to fry..."
"No," he interrupted, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I want you to come right now."
"Do you need some cuddles?" you whispered in his ear. Jeonghan didn’t say anything, just placed a delicate kiss on your shoulder and rested the side of his face against yours, gently caressing your cheek against his.
The moments of silence and everyday life were something you both enjoyed; just being in each other’s company felt like something you never wanted to part from. Jeonghan slid his hands under your pajamas to gently caress your belly; you always told him you didn’t like it, but he didn’t care, your skin was too soft and warm to resist. It brought him so much peace to feel you close.
However, it wasn’t the proper opportunity to do so…
"Jeonghan," you murmured, he made an unintelligible sound, " can I at least clean all this mess?"
"No," he held you tighter, pressing his chest against your back, "I’ll drag you if you don’t come right now."
"At least let me wash my hands so I don’t smell like onions..."
"Alright."
You waited a few seconds for him to let go, but he still clung to your body; you even thought he might fall asleep right there. You sighed as if accepting defeat.
"You're not going to let go of me, are you?"
Jeonghan laughed and hid his face in the nook of your neck.
M/N and Mingyu like to sneak and go around to have fun together, but once they get caught by the leader.
Warnings : 14th member reader, oral (Mingyu and S.Coups receiving), Shower sex, getting caught having sex, threesome, Sub!reader, Dom!Mingyu, Dom!S.coups, Mingyu using names such as my love and slut, handjob, Scoups using the name nickname baby, MINORS DNI!
Genre : Smut
===============
M/N was walking towards the practice room. He was gonna go there alone because he needed to practice the new choreography for their comeback. M/N opened the door and when he did, he could have sworn that his jaw hit the floor. He saw Mingyu in the practice room too, wearing no shirt. He froze in place and almost dropped his phone that he was previously scrolling through. Mingyu acknowledged M/N's presence and smirked "Good evening. Didn't expect to see you here" Mingyu said, but M/N knew exactly that Mingyu knew about M/N coming here today.
"Don't play dumb, you came here because you knew I would." M/N said and tried not to glance at Mingyu's body that was glistening with sweat, perfectly sculpted and perfectly toned. Mingyu saw the blush on M/N's face and decided to tease him a bit further
"You catch up quite quickly, my love" Mingyu said with a devilish smirk. That nickname always stirred something inside him. He put down his stuff and smiled "Wanna practice together then?" M/n asked, trying to ignore the obvious bulge growing in Mingyu's pants. It's nothing new for M/N, Mingyu always gets hard just thinking of being alone with him. Mingyu smiled "I think you and I both know damn well we're not gonna be practicing here." Mingyu said in a matter of fact voice and M/N rolled his eyes.
Mingyu was correct and both of them knew it. That's why Mingyu was sitting on a chair next to the mirror, looking down at M/N who was sucking him off. Mingyu has always loved oral, especially receiving. He looked down at M/N with hooded eyes as his hand gripped the back of his head slowly, making him take more in his mouth. M/N responded with a small moan and continued to suck and lick. M/N has done this before to Mingyu, and Mingyu loves every second of every time they do it. M/N kept sucking him off until he felt Mingyu pull his head back and finish on his face.
M/N opened his mouth to taste as much as he could of it. Mingyu smirked at the outcome. He loved coming on M/N's face. It's a way to remind M/N who he belongs to. Mingyu smiled and leaned down to kiss M/N on his lips, tasting himself on it "You did amazing. As always" Mingyu praised and M/N stood up after "I need to go wash my face, and then actually practice" M/N said and Mingyu pouted "Fineee" He whined and M/N chuckled before heading to the bathroom.
It has been two days since the practice room event. M/N was laying on his bed, reading a book peacefully, when Dino entered his room "Hyung? Can you play a video game with me? Wonwoo was playing on his own and Seungkwan rejected me" Dino complained and M/N smiled, finding Dino's behavior adorable. "Sure, I'll play with you. But I have to shower first. I've been in bed all day and I smell awful" M/N admitted and Dino decided to joke about it "You always smell awful" Dino said jokingly and M/N scoffed "You little-" He cut himself off before he could say anything "I'll go set up a game in the living room, you can go take a shower. But be quick" Dino said and M/N stood up "yeah yeah. I won't take long" M/n said and took a pair of clean pants and a t-shirt and headed for the shower. He was about to close the door before a hand stopped it from closing. Mingyu slid into the washroom and then closed the door and locked it. "I'm gonna pretend I'm not offended" Mingyu said and M/N raised and eyebrow.
"About what exactly?" He asked and put down the clean clothes. "That you were going to shower. Without me!" Mingyu said over dramatically and M/n chuckled, finding it amusing "I need to be quick. I promised I'd play with Dino" M/N said and began to remove his jewelry "Why not play with me first?" Mingyu said, his voice dropping to a low and husky tone. "I need to be quick" M/N said and Mingyu wrapped his arms around his waist, squeezing lightly "Well aren't we usually pretty fast?" Mingyu asked and M/N blushed "i guess. But seriously, we need to be fast" M/N said and Mingyu smirked.
They both soon removed their clothes and got under the warm water. Mingyu didn't waste time beginning to touch M/N. He slid his big hands down M/N's back and onto his ass, giving it a slight squeeze. M/N blushed as he tried to wash his hair "You seriously need help. How can you be this horny all the time?" M/N questioned and Mingyu only smirked "I can't control myself around you. You're too irresistible." Mingyu said and flipped M/N over against the wall. M/N obeyed and he arched his back a bit, giving Mingyu access to enter him when he wanted. Mingyu ran his big hand along the curve of M/N's ass before going in between, inserting a finger inside him "A-Ah Mingyu.. we don't have a lot of time" M/N whispered and Mingyu inserted another of his long digits inside M/N's hole "I'll be as fast as possible, but I don't want to hurt you"
M/N nodded and tried to relax against Mingyu so it would be easier for him to enter. He took a deep breath and his hands balled into fists as he anticipated for what's to come. Mingyu then pulled his fingers out after a while of stretching him and adjusted his position so his dick was lined up with M/N's hole. Then he pushed the tip in, and slowly more, then more, using the water and his own precum as lube. M/N bit his bottom lip to not make too much sound, so the rest of the members wouldn't hear them. Mingyu took a firm grip of M/N's waist and began to move slowly in and out, making sure to not hurt him, but also making him feel pleasure. M/N let out a breathy moan, feeling the burning stretch as Mingyu's dick slid in and out of him.
M/N hummed, signaling Mingyu to go faster, and so he did. Mingyu quickened his pace, now moving at a rhythmic pace, hitting all the right spots that make M/N feel the most pleasure. After some time, there was a knock on the door. "Hyung? When are you coming? I've waited for a long time" Dino said from the other side of the door, and M/N's eyes widened as he realized that it has been a bit too long, and that Dino is not one to be patient. M/N cleared his throat and tried to get Mingyu to pause, but Mingyu showed no signs of stopping now. M/N breathed out shakily and tried not to moan as he tried to answer Dino "I just h-have to wash my... mhh~ hair" M/N said, muffling a moan in between his sentences. "Are you okay? You sound out of breath" Dino said, sounding a bit worried "Yes! I'm fine! I'm just a bit... tired... and i yawned... mh~" M/N said and covered his mouth as Mingyu quickened his pace. "Okay. I'll be waiting downstairs then. Don't take too long anymore" And with that, Dino's footsteps went further and further. M/N sighed out of relief and then moaned a bit louder as Mingyu hit a right spot again "You're a jerk" M/N said as he closed his eyes in ecstasy "You know you enjoyed that. The thrill of almost getting caught" Mingyu said and smirked.
A few weeks passed and during that time, one of the members started to get suspicious about M/N and Mingyu. S.Coups had noticed that the two disappear quite usually. He had his suspicions about what the two of them might be doing together every time they vanish, but he never really fully knew what. S.Coups is currently sitting in the living room when he hears a bed creaking sound from upstairs. He first didn't pay any mind to it, but when it kept on going on and on, he had to check it out. The only members home right now are him, Mingyu, M/N, Joshua, Hoshi, Woozi and Wonwoo. The rest are out doing their thing since they don't have anything on schedule right now. S.Coups slowly made his way up the stairs. He heard the bed creak from the end of the hallway, where Mingyu's and Woozi's room were.
He knew for a fact that the sound couldn't possibly come from Woozi's room, so he walked over to Mingyu's room and swung the door open. What he saw was exactly... well not exactly but quite close to what he anticipated. He saw M/N on all fours on the bed, being held in that position by Mingyu, who was thrusting into M/N, keeping a hand at the back of his neck to keep M/N steady. When Mingyu acknowledged S.Coups' presence, he stopped for a moment. "Hyung!" Mingyu exclaimed and M/N was pulled out of the land of pure bliss, straight back to earth. "huh?" M/N moaned and saw S.Coups at the door, leaning against the door frame, with his arms crossed, a smirk on his face and a visible growing bulge in his pants "no, no. Go on. Don't let me interrupt" S.Coups said and Mingyu smirked "Uh-huh? Does the leader want to join, hmm?" Mingyu asked with a teasing smirk and S.Coups closed the door as he entered.
"I've thought about what you two were up to always. Seems like my suspicions were true." S.Coups said and sat down on the chair. Mingyu then looked back at M/N, who was a mess under him, and continued to thrust into him, now a bit slower. "Oh? have you thought about me and M/N having sex?" Mingyu asked and went a bit faster, making M/N whine and moaning under him "You make me sound like a creep. But i'm not gonna deny that" Scoups said and smiled as he pulled off his pants, releasing his hardened dick and beginning to jerk off to the scene in front of him. Mingyu continued to fuck into M/N, making him moan louder. "Cheol?" Mingyu said and Scoups hummed "You want to shut him up?" Mingyu asked and Scoups smirked, getting up from the chair and climbing onto the bed in front of M/N. "It depends. Is he good at being shut up?" Scoups asked and Mingyu smiled "The best."
With that, Scoups lifted M/N's chin and pushed the tip of his dick inside his mouth. M/N obeyed instantly, and began to suck. "You like that? Having both of your holes filled at the same time, our little slut." Mingyu said with a husky tone and Scoups began to thrust into M/N's mouth, matching Mingyu's rhythm. Scoups smirked and grabbed the back of M/N's head, making him take his dick fully in his mouth. M/N gagged, but soon adjusted to the feeling and took him fully. "He's so good at this" Scoups praised and Mingyu smiled "I've trained him well." Mingyu added and then pulled out. "Position switch." Mingyu said and Scoups pulled away too.
Mingyu flipped M/N over on his back and adjusted his position so that he could enter his hole again "i want to see your face, my little slut" Mingyu said and M/N moaned, looking into Mingyu's eyes. "How about this, you have to beg for Seungcheol to let you cum, okay? You are not allowed to cum before Cheol tells you to" Mingyu said and M/N was too fucked up to form a coherent sentence, or even a word. Mingyu was hitting all the perfect spots that made M/N's toes curl and back arch. Scoups smirked and took a hold of M/N's hand and guided it to jerk Scoups. M/N was a moaning and whimpering mess under Mingyu, and he looked up at Scoups "Mhh~ please.. l-let me cum~" M/N begged as he kept jerking Scoups. "Cheol-hyung~ let me cum please... i'm so- ah~ close" M/N moaned and his back arched again as Mingyu hit that same spot over and over again. "You're such a good boy." Scoups praised and he was getting closer to the edge too. Scoups glanced at Mingyu who was also close, then he pulled M/N's hand off of his dick and jerked himself off, and soon came all over M/N's face. He moaned and soon Mingyu released too. "cum for us, baby~" Scoups whispered and M/N arched his back as he came hard. Mingyu was panting heavily, and so was M/N. Scoups watched the two of them as he came down from his high as well. "you're so amazing, my love" Mingyu praised M/N, who was still trying to catch his breath after the intense moment. "I could do this again some time" Scoups admitted and Mingyu smiled "You're always welcome to join us" Mingyu said as he pulled out of M/N and laid next to him and Scoups nodded "Maybe you could fill me up next time" M/N suggested and Mingyu smiled "I love that idea." Scoups said and put on his pants and t-shirt. "until next time then" Scoups said and closed the door after leaving.
"Did you have fun?" Mingyu asked and M/N hummed with closed eyes "yeah... was fun..." He said and took a deep breath, feeling happy. he couldn't wait for next time, maybe he could be filled by both of the men. But that's a surprise for M/N to find out later.
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